


Trinkets

by GildedOrchid



Series: Camaraderie [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: War for Cybertron
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GildedOrchid/pseuds/GildedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jazz has an office, contrary to popular belief. It is neither cluttered, nor barren. There is a perfectly serviceable desk, a rather comfortable chair, and of course the obligatory trinkets one inevitably picks up along the way. For Jazz, however, there is a story behind each one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

"Mmmm..." Firestar scrutinized her latest client with a frown, her brilliant blue optics dimming in thought.

Prowl, unused to and somewhat unsettled by such direct scrutiny, subtly shifted his posture to make himself seem more imposing. It didn't work at all, and he soon found himself indulging the most common tactic of the nervous: bluster. Optics narrowed, tone frosty and just  _this_  side of civil, Prowl glowered down at the slight femme who was circling him like a sharkticon before the kill. "Is there a problem?"

Utterly unintimidated, Firestar came to a stop and shrugged eloquently. "Your black. It's all wrong."

"My paint scheme is  _wrong?_ " Bluster gave way to much more natural indignation, and Prowl's door panels hiked upwards.

A sharp digit flicked towards different regions of Prowl's darker plating. "Black is always a bit conservative, but you're a Lord Marshall of the Praxian Enforcers; serious and conventional is what you  _do._ However, it doesn't fit the image of a mech who outmaneuvers a Towers noble on the social battleground, steals the Alpha Maestro himself right out of his grasp and then disappears into the night after seducing said mech-and a good third of the nearby crowd."

Noble mech? He had Smokescreen report in on the known VIPs, and he'd made note of all noble mechs in attendance! He'd yet to encounter any, as a matter of fact! And although he'd heard of the Alpha Maestro-who in the entirety of the Tri-States (or on Cybertron, for that matter)  _hadn't-_ he certainly hadn't  _seduced_  anyone, much less a crowd!

A rather gloomy hint of resignation settled on his frame as he braced himself for the worst. "And society gossip being what it is, I suppose various iterations of this tale have hit as far as Iacon by now?"

"There and back again!" Firestar chirped. "It's exciting! When word circulated that Praxus was sending us one of the Lords Marshall to oversee their Tribute, we were expecting some horrible fuss-bot that would spend most of their time complaining about the festivities and looking down on us like we were degenerates. Instead of that, we got  _you_ , and the hottest story to hit Protihex since Sentinel Prime found out the sparkling wasn't his!"

Something, somewhere, had gone horribly awry in this miserable spectacle, and he wasn't quite sure where to begin, or whom to blame.

"Well, to business!" Firestar straightened, pulling a sample ring of black color swathes from her subspace."It was a smart opening move, enticing the Alpha Maestro but not pressing your suit too much. This is Protihex, however, and the little things matter the most. Your black doesn't suit, so we'll reprogram your nano-chromites."

Prowl snapped out of his perplexed horror and right back into his state of indignation. "My black is perfectly fine! I merely requested a grooming, not a color procedure!"

Firestar looked appalled. "You Praxians are all alike! Terrors, each of you, running to a wash rack and slapping on a layer of wax and calling the job done! Well, you won't come to an Incandesca salon and receive such poor treatment, especially  _mine_. Savant Tracks would have me cast out entirely, his Second or no!"

Prowl, at the end of his patience with Protihex, high-strung guild bots, their antics and of feeling one step behind in every interaction, drew himself up to full height and  _glared._ "Wash and wax, like I ordered."

Firestar sneered. "Solus hang your  _orders,_  sir. This is  _my_  domain of expertise, and you will do as  _I_ say. Or were you tutored exclusively on color theory and maintenance for 20 vorns?" She stepped into Prowl's personal space, and he had but a brief moment to wonder how a bot shorter than him managed to loom so impressively before she barged ahead. "Did the Guild Master of Incandesca himself personally tutor you in the art of nano-chromite programming since you were a youngling and cram a thousand and one treatises on the proper way to care for a frame since you were young enough to understand what aesthetic philosophy was?"

He most certainly did not tremble.  _Not at all._

"Are you the foremost colorist this generation of Cybertronians has produced? No? Then perhaps  _you_ should do what  _I_  say, and stop being  _difficult!_ "

Prowl subsided.

Firmly in control, Firestar began to circle around Prowl once more, shifting him about in order to catch different angles of lighting as she flipped through her color ring. She grumbled a moment, then produced another sample, this one shades of white, and began to match color samples against each other. It was a long, quiet, moment in time, before Firestar trilled softly. "Your white falls into perfect parameters for classification as White Smoke, so you need a more subtle shade of black to blend with it. Something a bit softer, that blends more and isn't such a stark contrast. A black that's a bit more mysterious with its tinting, but still strong..."

Prowl didn't even pretend to understand what Firestar was saying, instead focusing on the myriad of ways he was going to  _murder_  Smokescreen for telling him this was a good idea later. Besides, Firestar was obviously Working right now, and he knew from long experience that it was just easier to let a bot possessed by their function have their way; it went easier for everyone involved.

"We'll base this with pure black, and blend in silver for the undertones and use a bit of tint for the highlights...perhaps a deep cyan for the upper tint.." Firestar continued to muse on color mixtures as she walked over to the far wall and began to key in a long line of code and color percentages on the unobtrusive console stationed there.

While she worked, Prowl took the opportunity to reflect on the previous cycle, then decided to comm Smokescreen. If the rumors were even remotely true, Smokescreen would know the most accurate story, and he could work from there.

/Smokescreen./

No reply.

/ _Smokescreen_./

"Lord Marshall, if you could please lay down on the berth? I have the nano-chromites prepped?" Firestar waved an injector in the empty space between them. "You may power down if you choose; this will take two joors to complete. This injection will deactivate your current nano-chromites, and replace them with these."

Prowl obeyed, letting Firestar finish the last of her preparations before throwing open the kin-bond he shared with Smokescreen once more and flooding it with the full force of the irritation he'd developed as the current cycle had progressed. /Answer me, you rotten fragger!/

/WHAT?!/

/Ah. There you are./

Grumpy impatience colored their bond, and he could almost  _feel_  Smokescreen glowering at him. /I happened across a very feisty set of twins.  _Twins,_ and you are cutting in on my cultural research!/

/Cultural research? Is that what they're calling it now?/

/The gold one is better looking than you, and the red one knows how to do this trick with his glossa that's probably illegal in seven city-states. Goodbye./

/Wait! I need your help!/

A wave of disbelief flowed rose in reply to his admission. /You had the Alpha Maestro himself ready to jump your struts. You don't need anyone's help right now. Why are you even bothering me!? Shouldn't you be, you know,  _indisposed?_ /

/I  _am_  indisposed. This harridan forced a nano-chromite procedure on me, and I just found out that I-/

/Nano-chromite procedure?  _You_  went to the Incandesca salons?/ A mixture of awe, pride, and amusement spiraled down from Smokescreen's end of the kin-bond. /You seriously mean to see this thing you started with the Alpha Maestro through, don't you?/

There were few things Prowl truly hated, but being uninformed about things that concerned him? Especially of this magnitude? If he still had control of his motor functions, he'd almost be ready to have a fit. As it was, Smokescreen's question only served to increase his ire. /Am I the  _only_  mech that didn't know that was the Alpha Maestro?! I don't even remember doing anything unusual last cycle!/

/...wait. How do you of all mechs not remember something of the magnitude you pulled? I've been hearing gossip all cycle long about how you and the Alpha Maestro must have been secret lovers, given the way you two were carrying on, and that there will probably be a duel between you and Lord Mirage and-/

/ _DUEL?_ /

/Well, that piece of gossip is new, and I wouldn't put much stock in it yet, but you were pretty bold last cycle. Lord Mirage might have to duel you, just to save some face in all of this./

/Bold? I was no such thing!/

/ You ignored Lord Mirage from the moment you were introduced, got wrapped up in a private conversation with the Alpha Maestro, whom he has been pursuing for the last seven, maybe eight, stellar cycles come to find out, and spent the next three joors all cozy in a private corner dancing just a little too close, staring at each other just a little too long, and giving the rumor mill enough fodder to run itself for the next three decacycles./

Prowl's frustration rode along their bond and he longed to hit something. /Smokescreen, the  _only_ mechs I encountered last cycle after you abandoned me to chase after those twins called themselves Ligier and Meister./

The kin-bond quieted for a long moment, during which time Prowl resoundly cursed the moment he agreed to go to Protihex. Smokescreen's familiar presence returned before he got too far, rife with amusement at his expense.

/Wow. Sideswipe says those are nicknames Lord Mirage and the Alpha Maestro used when they were younglings trying to sneak into places they had no business being. Its 'become a sort of Protihexian in-joke, apparently./

/That's very nice, but I'M NOT PROTIHEXIAN, SMOKESCREEN./

/Well, look at it this way. You are pursuing the most sought-after mech in all of Protihex, and probably half of Cybertron, and he didn't shoot you down from square one by pulling rank on you. It's a good sign./

/Primus.../ Prowl didn't even bother to point out the flaws in Smokescreen's logic, instead focusing on a more horrifying reality. /Mech, I arranged to have a  _courting gift_  sent to Meister after we left the Fountain Gardens./

/...you did  _what?_ /

/I...it was impulsive, yes, but I couldn't bear the thought of letting a mech like that slip through my grasp so I decided to officially offer suit. It's not terribly uncommon during this sort of thing./

/ _Primus._  Well little brother, the way I see it, you can try and clear up the misunderstanding, or brazen this out. Either way, this has got to be the most entertaining thing I've heard since that whole fiasco about Sentinel Prime finding out the sparkling wasn't his./

Prowl made a mental note to revisit his thoughts on fratricide./Your sentiments are spark-warming. Truly they are./

/Your sarcasm isn't going to do you a bit of good right now, you realize? Now, what are you going to do?/

A good question, and one he had only just begun to brave contemplating. /I...I don't know yet. I'm thinking things through./

/Well, let me know when you figure it out. In the meantime, I've been an exceptionally poor host to these lovely mechs here, and I need to make my apologies. Repeatedly./

/Please, don't share./ Prowl recoiled a bit from their connection, happily giving Smokescreen his privacy.

A final brush of amusement worked its way along their kin-bond (along with some lusty intent he really could have done without) and then Smokescreen's presence faded, leaving Prowl along with his thoughts, and a few itchy sensors as the nano-chromites did their work.

Ignoring the fact that Meister was in fact Jazz,  _the_ Alpha Maestro, Protihex's best musician and guild master of Choragus, Prowl had to admit to himself nothing had changed. The mech he'd spent the last cycle with had been exceptionally charming, a fantastic conversationalist, quick-witted, and full of hidden facets he looked forward to discovering. He'd had no doubt the mech was attracted to him, and he himself was quite...smitten. He could admit that to himself. Now, all he needed to do was figure out just what he was going to do next.

"...oh, he's  _good._ "

Mirage's quiet murmur jolted Jazz out of his stunned contemplation, and he passed the datapad on his desk to Mirage before reaching out to pick up the large, flawlessly cut orb of exceedingly rare black Praxian crystal that was resting on a bed of soft cloth.

This was practically unheard of. Praxian crystal of that quality, that  _quantity_ , was hard to come by, and Prowl had procured it quickly and...and..Jazz's engine purred as he turned the crystal this way and that, letting the light refract off and though it. He'd thought the crystal damaged after all, but it was instead beautifully precise internal etching, causing the shadows produced from it to resemble their silhouette, locked in a dance.

"...very,  _very_  good." Mirage looked down at the data pad again.  _Memory lingers, but even the fondest reveries pale against reality. Shall we dance again? Prowl._

Jazz was staring off into the dusk shadows that now covered his wall, quite obviously revisiting that aforementioned memory.

"Take the mech up on his offer."

Jazz looked incredulously back at his long-time friend. "*You* are okay with this?"

Mirage made a non-committal noise as he reached for Jazz's prized bottle of vintage Blue Solus. "You are a prize, no doubt, but I have options." Mirage let the glowing blue energon swirl around in the bottle, letting the silver beads of mercury thoroughly mix through the refined high-grade before pouring it into a small cube. "Tracks, for one, is always a good time, and I hear that Smokescreen is attending the Revels. I've been intending to cross his path for a while..."

"One, Smokescreen is Prowl's brother, so that has the potential to be awkward. Two, Smokescreen's been working his way through Abstractia this Revel season. Their guild master spent all last cycle whining about how the mech absconded with his prize adept."

Mirage smirked. "Was that before or after you outright jilted me to go swoon over the Lord Marshall?"

Jazz scoffed, still preoccupied with the black crystal that had been delivered to him. "I would feel much more guilty if I didn't know for a fact you weren't using me to make Tracks jealous."

"It wasn't just Tracks, to be fair. Well, that Blaster looks like he could be interesting...he was so adorably  _smitten,_ and his paint would look rather fascinating mixed with mine and Tracks'..."

Jazz shook his head. "Planning on returning to the Towers utterly debauched, are you?"

Mirage looked disgusted as he finished his energon and poured himself another cube. "Primus knows it won't happen there. I have never dealt with a more repressed, utterly miserable batch of noble mechs. I never should have left Crystal City."

Jazz plucked the datapad out of Mirage's hands and made a careless shooing motion before the mech  _really_  got going. Mirage wasn't necessarily a whiner, per say, but the mech had a tendency to hate wherever he was, and then wax poetic about it as if it were paradise when he finally left. Eventually, the mech would probably up and leave Cybertron entirely, and then sped the next 29, 30 stellar cycles complaining about it. Probably to him, knowing his luck. "Blaster is in one of the practice halls right now, working on his master piece. I'll need him back the cycle after next. Now go, play. I need to finish Choragus' Tribute piece."

Mirage stood to go, then paused. "You know, you *do* owe me a favor. The rumor mill is having its own merry way with my reputation right now."

"Your reputation is fine, and you know it. But if you must, you can make up something to save your precious dignity. Tell them you were planning to leave me for Tracks anyway. It's not too far from the actual truth, and maybe the mech will stop moping about. It's just  _sad_  now."

Mirage had to agree. The melodramatic looks Tracks had sent his way last cycle were enough to churn a mech's tanks. He'd obviously punished the mech enough."And when they ask about you?"

Jazz considered. "You may tell them...the Alpha Maestro is  _intrigued_."

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone knew of the much vaunted Harmonium, Cybertron's largest (and grandest) opera house and concert hall, but few Cybertronians outside of the Tri-Torus states were ever afforded an opportunity to see it for themselves. Prowl was from Praxus, Protihex's sister-state, as was Smokescreen, and neither of them had ever had the opportunity to see it for themselves before the current Revels either. Prowl rather wished he had; if only because he wouldn't now be standing on the stairs-marble stairs carved to mimic pages of sheet music- and gawking like a starving mech suddenly presented with Primus' personal cache of energon.

Situated as the focal point of Protihex's northern regions, the Harmonium dominated the area's skyline. The Harmonium itself was a marble palace that easily rivaled the Temple of the Primes for intricate beauty. Each of the Harmonium's massive walls were covered in delicate etchings-the sheet music of every guild member's master-piece they had heard-and a grand blue, silver, and black crystal mosaic depicting a spiraling musical stave erupting from between an ornate hammer and anvil dominated the central (and of course largest) window.

They hadn't even reached the Harmonium itself, though. They were still on the grand stairs leading up to the opera hall, and Prowl switched from gawking at the Harmonium to gawking at the arches that lined the path before him. The Grand Melodic Spiral...

Thirteen sweeping arches covered in individually crafted marble tiles seemed to gleam-no doubt due to crystals and rare gems that had been ground into the tile-in the night sky, and ornate chimes carved to resemble musical clefs hung from each keystone. There was no breeze now, but it was rumored that when the wind blew in the right direction, the chimes played a ringing canon that was likened unto the striking melody of hammer and anvil that once echoed out of Solus Prime's Forge.

"We call it "Solus' Requiem".

Prowl turned slightly to meet the visored gaze of the mech behind him. "Oh?"

The rich vocal harmonics of the dark blue mech were overlaid with a sort of reverent melancholy as he continued to speak. "As the stories go, Cybertronians learned melody from the ringing of Solus' Anvil, developed harmony from the thrum of her Bellows. Those we forged together and called song, and she delighted in them." The mech gently brushed one of the tiled arches, then continued to recite what was obviously a treasured myth among Protihexans. "Solus Prime died far from Protihex, so we, her devoted Choragus, constructed this pathway in hopes that the song of her home will reach her and sooth her spark, wherever it might rest."

Thus the Tributes, artistic offerings from each of Protihex's founding guilds crafted in memory of Solus Prime.

"Fact: Thus the Tributes."

He…hadn't said that out loud. Prowl paused his descent down the Melodic Spiral and met that quiet agreement with a suspicious frown at the mech that now gazed up at him with perfectly smooth features. "Telepath?" Prowl murmured curiously. He'd heard rumors of mechs possessing the ability, but had never encountered one until now.

"Untrained, but yes. You think loudly enough that it sounds like normal speech to me. You may call me Soundwave, a Savant of guild Choragus."

/Say, weren't you supposed to be heading inside? Away from me and my research?/

Prowl scowled as the words filtered across the sibling bond he shared with Smokescreen and his brother began his approach, a spring in his gait and door panels tilted up at a jaunty angle. /You are *not* a researcher. You *have* a function already, Smokescreen, and it's not as a cultural researcher. When I get enough evidence to prove you acquired that assignment license illegally, I will delight in handing you over to the Council./

/Save yourself the trouble, mech. I won't even see the shadow of a jail./

/Mechs like you are the reason all the malcontents gain followings, you know. But rest assured, I don't intend to see you put in jail. The Council, however, will revoke your license, and then I'm going to personally drag you back to the Praxian senate hall and chain you to your desk. There are about five metacycles worth of accounting forms for you to process./

Smokescreen's horror filtered along their bond before he slammed his end of it closed after a disgruntled flick of his door panels. Stepping in front of Prowl, Smokescreen flashed his most winning grin at the newcomer.

"I am Smokescreen, and this is my brother-"

"Observation: Soundwave knows who both of you are."

Soundwave's visor flashed merrily at the startled looks he received.

"Understand: Everyone in Choragus knows about the mech that intends to lay claim to their Alpha Maestro, and *your* name has been making its rounds as well, Smokescreen. I believe your "research" has led you to work your way through five guilds as of this most current Revel."

"One must take pride in one's function, after all." Smokescreen replied, utterly unrepentant. "I find myself curious about your voice. Your harmonics are so rich."

"You register my sub-vocals? Smokescreen studies music too?"

Smokescreen shook his head remorsefully. "Sadly, no. I've always wished to learn, though. Are you a good teacher? I would love to make some forays into this field."

Soundwave remained expressionless for a long moment, and just when Smokescreen began to fear (and Prowl to celebrate) that his perfect approach was about to finally fail, Soundwave extended an arm with a mischievous smirk. "Acknowledged. Soundwave: superior."

Prowl made a disgusted noise and began to ascend the Melodic Spiral towards. At least Jazz gave *real* lessons.

The Harmonium's exterior was ornate, no doubt, but the interior of the concert hall was grander than even the Iaconian Senate Chambers. Large chandeliers made of mixed blue and purple crystals hung from the ceiling, which was covered in a large mural depicting the Triumph of Solus Prime.

The white lights within the chandelier refracted off of the blue and purple crystals to cast an indigo tint throughout the halls of the Harmonium, while the floor was covered in patterned white and indigo marble. Exhibits of old opera costumes and set pieces lined the walls, and bots strolled the elegant hallways, examining the displays, or mingling with other attendees in the social galleries.

Prowl passed a few such rooms as he made his way towards the auditorium itself, where Choragus' Tribute was scheduled to be performed. He had barely walked past the latest gallery when an aristocratic voice cut through the din of the crowd.

"Ah! Poacher! So good to see you again!"

Prowl glanced over at the source of the taunt, and braced himself for the next round of verbal jousting as caught sight of Lord Mirage. He was flanked on either side by a mech he recognized to be Savant Tracks of guild Incandesca, and an orange mech—Blaster; one of Jazz's personal students, if Smokescreen's information was to be taken as accurate.

"Prowl, Lord Mirage. My name is Prowl."

"Oh! I am so sorry Lord Marshall. I'm just dreadful about names." Mirage didn't even bother to attempt to look sincere.

Prowl scoffed inwardly. Dreadful indeed.

"Mirage, stop tormenting the poor mech. No doubt he has enough trouble keeping a leash on that lecher that despoiled my apprentice!"

Mirage waved Tracks' complaint away. "Oh give it a rest, Tracks! We all know that your precious little protégé was despoiled a long time ago—by you, as a matter of fact! You're just angry he passed you over for someone else."

"To be fair, Mirage? We all know you're not really at enmity with Prowl. You're just milking the gossip for all it's worth. Which, incidentally, isn't much anymore."

"What?!" Prowl and Mirage glanced at each other at their combined outburst before Mirage whirled back to face Blaster.

"Spill!"

"Well, apparently guild Vivant is in the middle of a little civil war at the moment, and it became public earlier this mega-cycle when an argument between the guild master and his Second erupted on the streets.

"'Quite a pretty little mess it was, too. Mixmaster flung a bottle of vintage Hexian Gray at Shooter's head."

They all turned as the Alpha Maestro himself walked up, a smile on his face as he whistled a jaunty tune.

"Tracks, Mirage, Blaster. Prowl."

Jazz's expression turned sly as he focused on his would-be suitor.

In the deca-cycle that had passed, Prowl had attended three different Tributes with Jazz (and Tracks and Mirage, because Tracks never left Mirage's side, and Mirage was never away from Jazz for long), and had presented three courting gifts after his first, all of which Jazz accepted, but the mech had not deigned to display any of them.

Undeterred, Prowl had been slowly pressing his case, and he was sure that any megacycle now, he would achieve his goal.

"Good to see you again, Meister. Liar—"

"Ligier." Mirage grumped, good-naturedly accepting Prowl's dig at his teasing name-mangling.

"So sorry, Mirage."

"Oh, both of you stop!" Tracks muttered, pulling a micro-cube of ultra-grade out of his subspace. "We're looking forward to the Tribute, Alpha Maestro."

Jazz smiled, pride plain on his face. "As am I. This will be the first Revel that I haven't had to compose the Tribute, and it's been a blessed relief. Two of my Savants submitted it to me, and I must say that it is one smooth tune! I think you'll all be pleased with the performance!"

Mirage swiped the cube from Tracks, who let out an indignant squawk behind him. "Well, Choragus lways—"

"Alpha Maestro! Alpha Maestro!"

"I can't seem to catch a break, today." Jazz murmured ruefully.

An excitable young mech flung himself down at his guild leader's feet, ready to fritz any second. "We're finished, Alpha Maestro! Ruined!"

The small group was startled by the sudden interruption, but Jazz, long accustomed to the histrionics a musician was capable of-especially before an important performance-passed the score he'd been working on over to Mirage and reached down to pull the acolyte back to his feet. Enough melodrama occurred on the Harmonium's stage without it seeping into everyday life. "And why are we ruined, Polyphony?"

"The Tribute piece, Alpha Maestro! We can't perform it!"

A few heads whipped their way at that pronouncement from the nosier bots in the area, but they quickly made themselves scarce at quelling glares from both Mirage and Tracks.

Jazz, drawing upon deep reserves of patience that every guild master needed to get through the cycles, merely shook his head. A lesser mech would have panicked at that same pronunciation. "Why can't it be performed?"

"Downbeat is with the medics, along with a good third of the performing ensemble, Alpha Maestro!" Polyphony wrung his hands, clearly envisioning the uproar and scandal that was going to erupt. "We have no conductor, our soloists are down, and we don't have enough parts to perform the song!"

"Why are they at the medics?"

"Can't Blaster do it?"

Jazz held up a hand as Mirage and Tracks blurted their questions at the same time. "Quiet, both of you. From the beginning, Polyphony."

The burgundy and gold mech nodded, pulling himself together. "The energon was tainted, Alpha Maestro. Downbeat insisted that we all fuel before the performance, but those that drank suffered processor lags and then crashed entirely."

Prowl frowned. Processor lags and crashes? That only occurred when a mech sustained traumatic physical damage or poisons were introduced to the energon tank...certainly no fights had occurred, so who would poison musicians?

"And then you took them to the medics?" Mirage asked, no doubt recording every moment of the budding scandal to feed back to the gossip network in trade.

"And officially report this incident?! Primus, no!" Polyphony turned to Mirage with an appalled look." I might well as started screaming the situation from the senate floor than go through public channels." Polyphony looked back at Jazz proudly. "I sent for two of our medics. Canon and Arpeggia both swear that it will take at least 3 joors before they come back online, much less are ready to perform."

"The energon was tainted, you say? Did the medics say with what?"

Polyphony seemed to wilt at Prowl's question. "I...well...that is to say...I don't properly know, Lord Marshall."

Right. Prowl's optics dimmed in open suspicion. Any rookie would have automatically known Polyphony was hiding the truth, especially given that he'd avoided going through normal channels. Social backlash or no, when a large group of bots suffered a serious health problem-especially with something like a crash-the first thing any sane mech did was get a medic, any medic, as quickly as possible.

A quick glance at Jazz showed that the Alpha Maestro was not fooled, and one hand clenched and unclenched slowly as he glared at the younger acolyte. This apparently was not the first time Jazz had dealt with an issue like this. "Where are they now?"

"The blue salon, Alpha Maestro."

Jazz nodded sharply, striding off in the direction that Polyphony had appeared from, a dark aura of malice radiating from his field. Mirage and Prowl were on his heels, followed by Tracks, who reached out and all but dragged Polyphony down the hall after them.

A group of mechs and femmes were clustered outside the blue salon when they finally reached it, whispering and transmitting conversations that no doubt centered on the sorry sight that waited behind closed doors. One look at their guild master's stormy visage had them quickly stepping aside-but still within eavesdropping distance-and the small group swept into the room.

Prowl grimaced as he gazed about the room. Decorated in regal blues and purples, the blue salon would normally have been just as elegantly decorated as the rest of the Harmonium, but the effect was ruined by 8 mechs sprawled across the floor, out cold, while the remaining 7 were busy yelling at each other and the two medics who were trying to frantically treat the down performers.

As a whole, they turned towards the door, and a very interesting silence-one Prowl swore had been birthed from the cold vacuum of space itself-fell over the room.

Deciding that not being anywhere near the fuming Alpha Maestro was the better part of valor, Prowl made his way towards the dispenser at the far end of the room. Time to investigate, or at least pretend to be too busy to get drawn into that brewing slag-storm. .

"Do you require anything? Prowl glanced over at the two mechs who had appeared by his side. He'd no quarrel with Tracks, nor was he worried about Mirage anymore, now knowing that Mirage was more interested in giving him a hard time than actually being malicious, but it was unusual for mechs of their stature to offer to assist anyone unless it was a bot of higher ranking. He wasn't.

Reading his surprise, Mirage shrugged ruefully. "Helping you means that we don't have to be over there."

"You could have left the room."

"True, but he's still in front of the door."

"There is that...want to help me remove the lid from this dispenser?"

Tracks and Mirage eagerly leapt to the task.

Polyphony fled Jazz's side, moving to the back of the group of performers.

"Symptoms?"

The medics shared a glance before standing up. "It's a lag induced processor crash, Alpha Maestro. If we flush their tanks, they'll be perfectly fine within a joor. They-" Arpeggia gestured at the group of bots who now looked as if they longed to join their comrades on the floor-are the lucky ones, and managed to metabolize the additives."

"Additives?" Jazz's voice was a malicious purr as he glanced over at his performers. It was Choragus' dirty little secret: bots desperate to enhance their performance or seeking a bit of quick inspiration often laced their energon with additives. It had been such a prevalent issue that the first thing Jazz had done upon assuming the title of Alpha Maestro was clean out every trace of energon additives in the guild, and issue a decree of what was, and wasn't, acceptable.

If his suspicions were correct, this was one of the banned substances.

"Arpeggia? Canon? You are going to tell me that beta-blockers aren't involved, and you sorry lot-" Jazz pointed angrily at the remaining ensemble- "are going to tell me that you didn't know what you were imbibing."

No one had the struts to lie to the Alpha Maestro's face, especially when he was in as dark a mood as this, so they said nothing. Silence settled over the room-this one fresh from the Slag Pits themselves-and Jazz growled lowly. "I distinctly recall banning beta-blockers from this guild."

Across the room, Prowl paused in his analysis and looked over at Mirage, who was very busily shuffling around pieces of metal. "Why are they banned?"

Mirage's fans whirred in a robotic sigh. "Beta blockers drop energon pressure, slow the engine, and in a high enough dose can even shut down some processes in the CPU, which in turn means that a bot's playing quality grows exponentially under their effects."

"But they're not illegal..."

"Legality doesn't enter into this. Jazz hates beta-blockers. The proper creation method is intensely difficult and results vary wildly from bot to bot. IF it works as intended, you can count yourself as lucky. Normally, you either under-dose and suffer no harm-which is why that lot there is still standing-or you overdose and freeze up your CPU, sometimes permanently. Jazz has lost more than a few mechs to them, and he believes that any performer that has to resort to enhancers isn't a true artist at all."

Prowl nodded somberly, darting a quick glance down at his chemo-analyzer. Of course it would be positive for beta-blockers. "Who wants to tell him?"

Tracks scoffed. "He already knows. Why do you think he's so torqued off right now?"

Across the room, Jazz finished haranguing the group. "Congratulations, you idiotic fraggers! Because of your stupidity, you've jeopardized our Tribute and our guild's reputation! You violated a direct edict, acted against the guild's best interest, and compromised yourselves as artists! By rights, by rights, I should throw your sorry afts out of my guild."

Someone whimpered fearfully.

Protihex was a city comprised entirely of different guilds, and where status was determined on the rest of Cybertron by birth and caste, Protihex was unique in that one's guild and rank within it determined status. Being cast out of the guild-especially when one was so far past the age of acquiring a new trade-was a fatal blow.

Guildless, as they were called, did not survive in Protihex.

The Guildless were social pariahs that had no rights, no income, and no future. They were below servants, who had their own hierarchy within the guild they served, and even the youngest acolytes, who were awarded some status and rights just by being part of a guild. Most Guildless either ended up committing suicide, or, for those determined to eke out a living elsewhere, left the city all together. Those that left rarely found work. Being cast out of Protihex was a stigma that tended to hamper employment within the private sector, and the government was not going to assign a job to anyone that A: had that kind of mark on their record, and B: hadn't actually performed their caste function for any significant amount of time. That left three options, none of which were appealing to any sane being: slow starvation on the streets, taking up work in the mines, or going to the gladiatorial rings. All three resulted in death sooner than later anyway.

Jazz was quiet a long while, mulling over the fate of the ensemble. "This is not the first time Downbeat and I have been over this. Since this is the product of his machinations, he will bear the brunt of the punishment." He glanced over at Polyphony. "Where did he get the beta blockers from?"

"...Soundwave, Alpha Maestro."

Prowl froze. Always, always, Smokescreen managed to find a way to cause problems for him. Swearing to throttle his brother on sight, Prowl frantically reached out for Smokescreen through their bond, intending to warn him to make himself scarce.

Jazz's features clouded over with rage. "Where. Is. He?"

"G-gone, Alpha Maestro. He left to run an errand. He was picking up a package." Polyphony didn't need to add what the package contained; they all knew.

"All of you are on probation for the next five vorns. One slip up and you are done." Jazz looked down at the bots on the floor. "Canon, get some servants in here to help you get these louts to the infirmary"

Canon bowed quickly and scampered away.

"Arpeggia? Get a group of servants to clean out Downbeat and Soundwave's rooms. They are hereby expelled from this guild."

Startled gasps from both inside and outside the room greeted the pronouncement, but Jazz shut any would-be protests down with a glare. "Understand, bots, I will not be tolerating anymore of these incidents. You are artists, and you will perform on the strength of your skills, and not with performance enhancers. Starting immediately, if I see you using them, buying them, simply looking to long at them? You are out of here. Now get moving."

The room emptied, and Jazz gave a disdainful kick to Downbeat's side. "Blaster!"

"Alpha Maestro?" Blaster had been the smart one, Prowl mused as Jazz's apprentice popped his head in the room, having remained quiet and out of sight behind the door, not daring to enter in.

"How much time do we have left?"

"….two cycles, give or take."

"Prep the ensemble…you'll be on Percussion this time, along with Claves. I want Fugue, Riff, Nocturne, and Modal on Strings, and Treble on keyboard. Meet me in the gold room."

Blaster bowed quickly and dashed off, ordering his guild mates to assist locating the bots in question.

Jazz glanced over at them, his gaze hardening. "No one, no one outside the guild needs to know what happened here."

They nodded and Jazz's mood seemed to lighten. "Mirage, will you get my sheet music?"

"The Counterpoint Partita?"

Jazz nodded. "I'll need it if this is going to work."

"That's next year's Tribute! It's not even finished!"

Jazz produced a thin sliver of indigo crystal—a conductor's baton—with a flourish. "There's always improvisation! See you all after the Tribute."


	3. Chapter 3

After Jazz's ambitious decision to fight the odds, Choragus had closed ranks.

Quite literally, in fact. Notoriously insular when it came to their guild's business, their music and anything involving their artistic process, they had all but dropped out from public view within the Harmonium. Prowl had disappeared, saying that he needed to get to his brother, and Tracks, quite neatly shut out of the guilds affairs seeing as Jazz was gone, had excused himself.

Left to his own devices, Mirage had engaged his invisibility cloak and followed after the crowd of anxious Choragus members. They wouldn't dare encroach on Jazz's domain, but it was common knowledge that any Tribute would need to be approved by the guild's Patron-the mech or femme that either financed the guild and represented them in the Protihex council chambers.

Choragus' Patroness was rumored to not only be their financer, but had once been an actual adept of the guild. It was one of the questions Protihexans longed to find out, but it had been a long, long, long time, even by Cybertronian standards, since she had shown herself to anyone outside the upper echelons of the guild. Though Patrons usually acted through the guild masters to manage the guild, Jazz had once confessed he could count the number of times he had been in the Patroness' presence using both hands.

Mirage did not doubt him; for all the authority he now carried, Jazz was still a young mech, and his time as guild master scarcely two vorns. It was rumored the old Alpha Maestro-who's reign had to be measured in millennium-could scarcely recall what she looked like, so few had been their interactions. The Patroness had not deigned to attend a council meeting herself in over four centuries, for Primus' sake!

For all her elusiveness, Glyph, Patroness of Choragus, would have to approve the Tribute, and for something of this caliber, he knew Jazz daren't do less than call a guild meeting and inform her in person.

It was, Mirage mused, a scene that any one of the myriad members of guild Abstractia would have murdered-yes, murdered-to be present for. Not for the gossip to trade, but for the chance to paint, to sculpt, to immortalize the manifestation of an artistic Concept: The Hero, The Queen and The Court.

There was no denying the fact that, in her time, Glyph had been very beautiful; regally so. Her armor, all bold sweeps and razor edges that stood in opposition to the sleek curves and sculpted ridges that dominated more modern frame designs, was a soft silver that was a far cry from the bold metallic that were the norm. A flowing trail of scroll work barely a shade darker than her armor plating covered the expanse of her arms and legs while a massive white crystal dominated her torso, sculpted to resemble a multi-faceted star. There was a cold beauty to her, imperious and elegant, that made him uncomfortable—it was the kind of beauty that could be utterly remorseless.

Mirage moved further back into the wings of the room, trying to withdraw as much as he could from that presence, but Jazz was apparently made of sterner stuff.

Met with that oppressive aura, Jazz yielded, patiently—humbly!—waiting for her to speak, on bended knee before the chair she sat on as if it were a throne. The members of the guild that had rank enough to even be in her presence? They surrendered, all but prostrating themselves before her, not a one daring to meet her gaze. Glyph was the sort of femme that commanded such a response; she had a processor that knew what she wanted, the struts to pursue it, and a will to make the Prime himself get it for her. It was rumored within the guild that the Patroness was somewhat fond of the current Alpha Maestro, enough that the few encounters they'd had were more cordial than...mercenary, but Jazz was not fool enough to presume upon their association now; it spoke of the gravity of the situation.

The rest of the guild clustered around the door or off to the side wings, determined to see and hear as much as possible; their fates rested on this, after all. It was through this group Mirage had slipped undetected, unwilling to be left out of the proverbial loop.

Glyph was quiet a very long time, then moved to stand, the scrollwork on her ornate silver armor seeming to shift as the light played over its finish. Ancient Glyph was, but she moved unhindered, gracefully walking towards the back of the guild's office/parlor. Thin fingers that tapered into sharp points—talons almost—plucked a few strings of a white and silver harp that stood taller than her as she passed, and the notes reverberated throughout the room before the oppressive silence returned.

A row of cabinets lined the back wall, and Glyph produced a key from her subspace to unlock one of them, pulling a soft cloth bag out. The dull clink of metal inside, though rare, was instantly identifiable. Coins—actual coins. The only coins on Cybertron were the pieces used within the Towers and Protihex's own special currency. Each coin was worth about three centuries of work; or one Tribute piece.

Though few were in a position to see it, an appalled look rode freely across Jazz's face as he realized what was about to happen. "No!"

Glyph cut off any further protest with the barest wave of her hand as she strode back across the room. She said nothing though, instead settling herself back in her seat. She met Jazz's gaze for a long moment, Jazz breaking the contact first and glaring heatedly at the floor instead. When she finally spoke, Mirage shivered, hearing the austere clarity of her voice like silver chimes in the distance. "It's good. You are good, Jazz. One of the best. But to produce a Tribute on such short notice? You are not that good. Improvisation alone will not carry a Tribute piece. This is going to cost me enough already; I'll not bear the stigma of a failed performance on top of that. I do not approve this. "

The Patrons of the guilds of Protihex valued money, valued prestige, valued Art only in as much as they could put a price tag to it, and Glyph stood poised to lose a lot. Not having a Tribute meant fines from the Council, but that paled beside the hit that they would take to their standing in the eyes of their fellow Protihexans. Losing that respect meant losing customers, losing performances, losing new adepts, who would pass over Choragus for guilds with less stigma behind their name. An ill received Tribute piece was almost as damning as not having one at all. Glyph would not tolerate two failures.

Jazz, outraged, surged to his feet. "You can't!"

"I can, and I have." Glyph cast a baleful glare at the original performing ensemble. "This was not your fault, Alpha Maestro, nor is it your mistake to fix. Pay the Tribute and the penalty, and tend to the guild in the aftermath."

"It can be done! We can—"

"They can't. You alone might be able too." Glyph gestured to Jazz's favored group, a mixture of Savant and Master ranked performers. "They are talented, but inexperienced compared to you. It will tell in the performance. So what will you do—perform a Tribute worthy piece by your lonesome? In the entire history of Choragus it has been attempted three times, and it's never been successful!"

"If that's what it takes, then yes, I will!"

Glyph swept out of her seat, a cold fury radiating from her field. The bots closest to her cringed away, and Mirage wasn't sure if it was determination or desperation that enabled Jazz to hold his ground.

"Understand, Alpha Maestro, this is my guild and I will not let your hubris make things worse! Pay the Tribute. "

"It's my guild too, and I'll be slagged before I do!"

Glyph looked ready to murder Jazz where he stood, but her temper evaporated, replaced by a much more sinister expression. She had broken three of Jazz's predecessors to her will since taking over the Patronage of Choragus, and now it looked like it was time to add the latest to her list. "Fine. You get to perform the Tribute."

Jazz began to speak, but was cut off by a warning glare from Glyph. "These are the terms. Since you are doing this on your own, the responsibility is now on your shoulders. Entirely. The processing fee for changing the Tribute piece comes out of your purse. The fee for changing the registered Tribute time is on you as well."

Mirage wanted to groan. She really was going to dump everything on his head.

"Now, for the Tribute. When-if-you fail, you are going to pay the Tribute Fee and penalty—the one you cause, and the ones you just spurned. On top of that, you are going to recompense each and every bot in this guild for the damage to their reputation that failure will cause: 3,000 credits a head."

Jazz glowered. "There are 261 bots in this guild, Patroness! I don't have that many credits!"

"Then I am setting the price for failure against your Marque."

"My marque!?"

A guild member's marque was determined by the price of training the guild had invested into them, as well as all supplies they'd purchased on guilds credit. To pay off your marque price gave you complete freedom within the guild; you were no longer indebted to the Patron and were free to practice your trade freely. It had taken Jazz almost all of his life to date to pay off his marque. To do so again—at almost twenty times the original sum wasn't possible. He'd be in debt to Glyph for the rest of his function!

A sane mech would back down now, Mirage mused. Apologize and recant.

Jazz considered a long moment. "So be it, then."

Jazz stormed out, leaving a stunned assembly behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

One song, ONE SONG spawned the bunny that attacked me and birthed this monstrosity of a series. The whole concept and idea of this story was spawned from that song, and this was the first chapter I actually had completed. Everything else was either worked backwards from here, or was based from this chapter. The song is Michael Meets Mozart, by the Piano Guys. This is the official link: http://thepianoguys.com/portfolio/michael-meets-mozart-1-piano-2-guys-100-cello-tracks

 

There were many ways Prowl had anticipated things spiraling out of control—he hadn't wasted his time on it going anything remotely approaching right because this was Smokescreen, and he was dealing with a Protihexan, and anything relating to right had long since stopped being part of his equations when dealing with either one. Still, he hadn't anticipated things being quite this awful.

He'd braced himself for a possibly hysterical mech that was on the verge of a breakdown, depending on how fast news traveled about his dismissal. Smokescreen he'd expected to be entirely useless, either more concerned about his next conquest, or still lost in the post-overload haze.

Instead, he'd barged into the room Smokescreen had been granted for the duration of their stay, and was promptly greeted with Soundwave rolling off of the berth and whipping out two pistols, both pointed at his head.

Reflexes kicking in, Prowl produced his own pistol, aiming it straight at Soundwave's spark, but not before the mech shifted his aim to split his firepower between he and Smokescreen.

"Slag me!"

Smokescreen scrambled off the berth, throwing up both of his hands as the laser sight on the second pistol settled squarely on the red arrow in the center of his interface panel. Despite being what Prowl generally considered a complete and total waste of bolts, he could not fault the mech for his preservation instinct. Smokescreen froze, a pained look blooming on his features.

"Fraaag. He…has a gun, and it's pointing at my panel." Smokescreen's voice was a study in horror. "Prowl, it's pointing at my panel! Prowl-"

"Would you rather it was pointed at your face?" Prowl snapped wishing once again that he'd refused to attend the Revels. Or, better yet, that he'd simply had the foresight to leave Smokescreen in Praxus.

Smokescreen was quiet for a long moment. "...Yes?"

Soundwave obliged the request, shifting his aim from Smokescreen's interface panel to the center of his chevron while never wavering from the bead he had on Prowl.

"Are you happy now?" Prowl's voice was a low hiss as he tried to formulate a plan that would a.) not rely on his idiot brother and b.) not be immediately detected by the fragging telepath with a gun to their heads.

"No, not really." Smokescreen paused, obviously considering his circumstances. "But yes."

Not for the first time, Prowl fervently wished he could shoot his brother with no repercussions.

"This is why you don't interface with strange bots Smokescreen."

Smokescreen's fans whirred with an irritated little huff. "It was all part of the plan, you know."

Plan? "What plan?"

"Smokescreen: spying for the Council since the moment he entered Protihex." Soundwave provided, his voice distant as he kept telepathic focus on both mechs.

"...what?"

"It's a living." Smokescreen shrugged, dropping to communicating through their bond. /That's why you could never find out how I got that work license. The whole cultural research thing? It's a ruse. Cultural research is just what the Intelligence division calls their assignments./

Prowl looked unsettled, but was quick to pick up on Smokescreen's intent. "And here we are with guns aimed at our heads. That's *some* living." /You mean everybot you've wandered off with was part of an Intelligence investigation?/

"Spoilsport." /Pretty much. Except for those hot aft twins; that was just too good to an opportunity to pass up. But I digress. You have to admit, I had even you fooled./

Prowl wondered if he could get away with-a heavy pressure settled on his mind, attempting to sift through his thoughts. He hastily brought up a mental image of the most repugnant thing he could imagine as a distraction, one of the few tactics they'd been taught to employ when dealing with the rare telepathic encounter. /And Soundwave?/

Noticing Soundwave beginning to shift stance-either to fire and duck out the way, or just make a run for the door-Smokescreen shifted back to verbal communication. "Soundwave here's been a very busy mech these past few vorns. Protihex has a nasty criminal ring operating through some of the guilds. Intel's been wanting to get a bead on the organization for a long time now, and Soundwave's one of their operatives. Took me a while to work my way through to an actual lead."

Prowl almost, almost pitied Soundwave. Running afoul of the Intelligence and Security Agency was one of the quickest ways to earn a sentence to the mines. Or one of the few gladiatorial rings left operating. Which one was worse was a toss-up. Intel would grind a mech like Soundwave under their heels and throw him to the proverbial cyber-wolves, if only for his audacity. Cybertron didn't need artists, didn't need half the artisans in Protihex, but they let the guilds stand and maintain a sort of autonomy of their own. Soundwave, outside the city-state would have been nothing, just another bot with an inherited function, but here? Here he was from one of the most respected guilds in Protihex, and a ranking mech within it at that; bots that attained the rank of Savant were second only to the guild master in skill and learning, and it was from their ranks that Patrons chose the next guild master. Given the autonomy and privileges of his rank that Soundwave possessed-had possessed-he'd technically ranked all but the loftiest of noble mechs.

No longer now. "Why throw all of it away, Soundwave?"

"Throw it all away? Hardly. The Patrons have bled this city-state dry for millennia, profiting off the labor of the guilds and then blowing it all on a lavish spectacle." Soundwave sneered. "And for what? To create a tribute to present to the council for a blind-optic turned to their corruption until the next Revel? The Patrons pile debts against our marques, holding us in elaborate slavery to line their accounts, then squander it again and again. We artists never had anything."

It was, to be fair, a valid claim. If there was an iota of truth to what Soundwave claimed. He had little knowledge of Protihexan customs and history outside of the rumor and myths indulged by its own denizens, but it was no secret that the city was one of excesses, and most especially during the Revels. He did not doubt for one astrosecond that sickening amounts of credits were funneled into each guild's Tribute, which were collected by the Senator of Protihex and in turn gifted to the Council. Any one of the Tributes gifted would be enough to keep a bot in lavish comfort for their entire function; there were 13 Tributes routinely gifted to the Council. That was certainly more than enough credits involved to let a city-state exercise their particular brand of freedom.

"Say what you will about not having anything; this has gained you nothing."

Soundwave's reply was the whine of a pistol charging up to fire. "Correction: I have gained plenty. I've become part of the system, not a victim of it. I'm protected now, and I the credits I earn don't automatically fall back to the Patroness in the name a marque, or guild fees, or a dozen other trappings that keep the artists impoverished and the Patrons rich."

Prowl's doorwings flicked sharply. "You're not so protected now. Your little side venture jeopardized your guild, and the Alpha Maestro dismissed you. You're Guildless now. I doubt you're worth the it to whoever holds your leash."

Soundwave's visor dimmed in shock and Prowl could almost see Soundwave's processes grinding to a halt. "What?" Soundwave snarled. "Lies!"

Prowl didn't fight against the sudden intrusion into his processor, letting Soundwave feel the truth of his words.

"NO! I...he...the Alpha Maestro...Jazz...but..." Soundwave's aim wavered and it was all the opening Smokescreen needed. He'd remained in the background as much as possible, letting Prowl do all the talking, waiting for a moment he could exploit. A gun not aimed at his head was opening enough.

Smokescreen launched himself forward, rolling under Soundwave's line of fire and swept the mech's legs out from under him. He was not a melee fighter of any particular skill, that area being more of Prowl's expertise, but his brother had drilled enough of the basics into him that he could at least handle himself, and the element of surprise was with him. There was a brief scuffle that ended with him astride Soundwave's back, pinning the struggling mech to the floor.

"You know, this could have been a lot more fun 40, 50 breems ago."

"I hope you catch nano-crabs!" Soundwave hissed.

Smokescreen shook his head, ignoring his captive as he slipped a pair of mag-cuffs and a restraining bolt out of his subspace "I'm going to go ahead and arrange his transfer to Iacon." Soundwave's struggles tapered off as Smokescreen activated the restraining bolt and his mental processes began to lag and not respond, effectively neutralizing him.

"How long?" Prowl asked quietly, wondering just how badly he'd underestimated Smokescreen—to say nothing of anyone else.

"Long enough that the act's become pretty much flawless." Smokescreen paused, then grinned recklessly. "Flawless, and indescribably fun. I get away with murder."

That sense of guilt and growing pride fled almost instantly, before it'd even been fully born. Prowl's doorwings drooped with resignation. "You are hopeless."

"Probably." Smokescreen straightened, staring down at his captive. "On a serious note, I don't have to tell you that you saw nothing, officially speaking. Right? Matter of fact, shouldn't you be at The Harmonium? Their Tribute begins soon."

Prowl's lip plates quirked in amusement. "I'll make something suitably torrid up to excuse your absence."

"Good, good."

"What will you do?" Blaster's voice was unusually quiet, filled with worry and the remnants of disbelief. All of Choragus was stunned by the news that Jazz would be performing the Tribute solo. No one doubted his skill, but he would have to succeed at the impossible. The guild was torn, some already mourning Jazz's loss (Impossible; it was impossible, even for Jazz), or bracing themselves for the performance of a lifetime (If anyone could pull this off, it would of course be Jazz! They didn't just give out the title of Alpha Maestro for nothing!).

Jazz himself was sequestered in his office, staring intently at the wall behind him that housed his personal instruments. An orb of pure white Praxian crystal (yet another of Prowl's gifts) flashed between his hands as he let it roll over and around his plating in fluid whirls; it was a trick learned early in his youngling stage, back when he'd still been a ward of Arabesque, the drama guild, and Choragus had yet to purchase his marque and adopt him into their fold.

"I don't know yet." Jazz set the orb he'd been juggling aside and reached out to trace the scrollwork on the column of a delicate harp before ruling it out. "How much time do I have left?"

"Almost a full joor."

A soft voice cut through the tense silence of the Jazz's office, and both Jazz and Blaster whirled to face their unexpected guest. "Patroness." Jazz's visor brightened in surprise as he inclined his head politely towards Glyph.

"Alpha Maestro. Blaster."

Blaster bowed at the obvious dismissal and clapped Jazz on the shoulder before vacating the room. It was a long moment before Glyph, assured of her privacy, turned back to face Jazz. "I don't want to make an example of you, Jazz. You are the best musician in this guild, and you have the makings of a spectacular guild master, given time and experience to come into your own." Glyph's gaze hardened. "I won't, however, allow you to do whatever you want out of some misplaced sense of artistic pride. I refuse to fight for control of the guild against the one mech that should be my ally. You picked a horrible time for politicking."

Jazz scoffed. "Politicking? That's the last thing on my mind, I assure you. I'm only thinking of the guild, Patroness. For better or for worse, one of our best Savants was just dismissed, and our principal percussionist along with him. We will be lucky to keep that quiet for a megacycle; To not perform a Tribute on top of that? It'll be another century before the scandal dies down." Jazz shook his head. "We can't afford that. We've too many coming up on their marque deadlines to hinder their solicitations with a bad reputation."

Glyph sighed. "Well, it's reassuring to know you aren't doing this for your own arrogance." She frowned suddenly, and Jazz felt a chill go down his struts. Glyph was always a bit…formal, a bit stuffy even, but there was just something about her that screamed danger when she was displeased. "Be that as it may, I am holding you to your boast. There's a lesson for you to learn about hasty words. If you fail, I am levying everything against your marque." Glyph produced a scroll from her subspace. "If, however, you succeed you will only have the cost of the sheet music to deal with."

"…Patroness?"

"There is one solo piece that is good enough to stand as a Tribute, and you are skilled enough that you could perform it on such short notice; you sight read extraordinarily well, and I've no doubt your tendency towards embellishment will serve you well with this piece." Glyph smirked. "I'm not above stacking the odds when it's the guild's reputation on the line."

Jazz's visor brightened in hopeful curiosity. "What is it?"

"The Last Invention."

The Last Invention? Jazz considered for a moment, then jerked in shock. "Surely not—"

"Euphonium's Last Invention? Indeed it is."

Jazz boggled. "Euphonium died before it was completed—some say it doesn't even exist."

"Oh, it exists. The Patron before me claimed it as his due because Euphonium died with an outstanding marque price, and with his deactivation it's passed to general house property. It's mostly complete. Almost entirely complete. No one dared to attempt to finish it, and I preferred to save it for an emergency. This qualifies, and you? You, I think, are the only one in this guild with the struts to even attempt it."

"Tell truth and shame the Unmaker." Jazz reached for it with a self-deprecating grin, but Glyph quickly yanked it back.

"The truth costs you 15,000 credits."

"Against my marque?"

Glyph nodded. "Against your marque."

Jazz fell silent. It wasn't even a tenth of the cost of a Tribute, which regularly garnered upwards of 200,000 credits, but still…

But still, it was still considerably less than what he stood to lose otherwise. His own marque had settled at 30,000 credits.

Glyph passed him the scroll. "I assure you this is the easier way, and you'll easily earn that back and twice more in commissions if you succeed."

True enough, but he rather wished he'd been less hasty with his words. Glyph didn't miss the flash of contrition either. "I'll consider your lesson learned; this we'll consider your penance?"

She didn't wait for an answer, turning to leave the room.

"Patroness?"

Glyph paused, barely a step away from the desk. "Yes, Jazz?"

The thank you wouldn't come; not soon with his pride still stinging, not verbally, but Jazz had always preferred action to words, anyway. He bowed deeply, deeper than he had for anyone in his function. Glyph's gaze softened. "Best be off then, Alpha Maestro. The Last Invention won't play itself. " Jazz straightened, and turned to examine his instruments. Transposing the Last Invention would probably be the easier part of his task.

"Cyber-cello." Glyph prompted as she exited his office. "Euphonium wrote it for the cyber-cello."

"And he intends to do this himself?" Prowl demanded, ensconced with Mirage and Tracks in the private balcony set just over stage left.

Mirage nodded. "For better or for worse, yes. Musicians can be so melodramatic about this sort of thing, and Jazz is no exception. But still, it's a Tribute. What he's doing isn't impossible per say."

"It's just that no one's managed to pull it off in the history of the guild, correct?"

"The last time it was tried, the Ember didn't even react. Some bots that remember it still swear that the Ember dimmed it was so awful."

Prowl frowned, wondering if tonight he would be witnessing yet another such failure.

An expectant silence fell over the inner auditorium as the lights dimmed, the heavy navy curtains pulling back to reveal the elegant silhouette of Choragus' Alpha Maestro, a cyber-cello nearly his match in height cradled resting against his shoulder, the bow resting at his side.

"Lord Senator, honored guests, denizens of Protihex, we present to you our Tribute: Euphonium's Last Invention, adapted and performed by Jazz, Alpha Maestro of Choragus." Glyph's dignified voice fade under the gasps and murmurs of surprise that gave way to applause.

Tracks looked ill. "Solus help him, he'd better not ruin this. This crowd will have him for scrap if he doesn't pull this off."

"The last thing Jazz needs is us doubting him. Besides, if anyone can do this, it will be Jazz." Mirage glared at Tracks before turning to Prowl. "Remember to keep a watch on the Ember; its reactions will determine the worth of the Tribute."

Prowl nodded, is gaze flickering over to the glowing silver and black lump of twisted metal that all but filled the nest of ornate cloth carried in the Priest's arms. He'd seen the Ember – rumored to be part of the spark casing of Solus Prime herself – release blue sparks of energy, emit a glowing silver aura, even blaze up momentarily with an eerie flame before settling back down at other Tributes. He didn't care what it did now, so long as *something* happened.

The noise—grown now to a near fever pitch—abruptly dwindled as Jazz held up his bow, ordering them to silence.

Prowl had known artistry; Praxus drilled ceremony and protocol and excellence into their young, and only ever expected it to increase with age. He'd seen musicians perform enduring masterworks that seemed to evoke a spectrum of emotions within the audience, had seen paintings that were unmatched by reality itself. Praxus did not necessarily produce art in scale or quality like Protihex, but they would never be accused of not appreciating it.

This? Prowl knew he had never – probably would never – seen the like.

It was reckless. Playful. Fierce and wicked, fingers gliding across taught strings as he summoned up common notes and imbued them with a richness and passion that transformed them into something altogether new, something purely his own that had yet to be matched by any other.

Sometimes he used the bow. Sometimes he plucked at the strings in a brisk pizzicato, sometimes he scratched at the strings, creating a surprising sort of percussion to mix in with the melody. Historically, Euphonium used the entirety of the instrument to produce his pieces, not restrained to just the strings. Obviously, Jazz prescribed to the same school of thought, and had entirely mastered it.

The notes and sounds he produced were flung together in reckless abandon, unconcerned of tradition and convention. They tumbled into each other, melding in odd places, crashing into each other elsewhere; they flowed and stuttered, a discordant melody that drew one in and played havoc with the senses before flying off into a fluid harmonic arpeggio. One moment coaxing and seductive, the next raging. Violent. Melancholy and exultation interchanging at a whim.

Jazz lost himself in the Invention, filtering every ounce of emotion and (quite considerable) skill he possessed into the piece. Prowl glanced over at the Ember and startled; a blue aura, tinted with flecks of gold (how?!) had spiraled up over the relic, twisting and flowing in a sort of metaphysical dance, clearly guided by ebb and flow of Jazz's music.

He wasn't the only one to notice, more than a few heads in the audience turning to gaze at the Ember in astonishment before whipping back around to focus even more intently on Jazz. Others remained transfixed on Jazz himself. He could just barely make out Blaster in the orchestra pit, a fierce grin on his face. The Patroness herself had a hand resting over her spark, clearly moved.

Euphonium's Last Invention slowly wound down, and Prowl caught himself leaning forward out of his seat, chasing (captured?) by the last strains of the song,

Amidst the roar of applause and exultant cheering, the Ember's golden aura continued to lazily twist and turn in the darkened auditorium, testament to Jazz's triumph.


	5. Chapter 5

 

_Praxus_

_10 meta-cycles post-Revels_

 

"Cultural Research?"

Prowl's voice was flat, completely unimpressed—and thanks to Smokescreen's inventive interpretation of the term—even wary of Jazz's revelation.

He'd been thrilled to receive a message from Jazz stating that he would be visiting Praxus for a few meta-cycles. The Revels had come and gone, with commissions far and wide keeping Jazz busy in the time since his grand triumph. It seemed everyone wanted Jazz's skills, and while Prowl was glad for his success, it was…irritating to suddenly find himself pushed aside. He did not doubt most of the agitation was due to the fact that he was still technically petitioning Jazz for the right to claim suit; a dozen gifts he'd presented the mech, and while all of them had been gracefully received not a single one had been displayed, announcing his acceptance.

While he'd grown to value the friendship that had formed between them, he'd almost begun to despair of ever getting a concrete answer from the mech; Jazz was not one to be pressured into anything, nor was he one to be tied down. When—if—anything happened, it was sure to be on Jazz's on terms. He'd rather hoped the nature of his visit had been a more…personal one, but instead he'd been dragged to a small but highly popular energon bar overlooking the Crystal Gardens, and had this laid on him.

He hoped Jazz meant legitimate cultural research and not spying—though he suspected Jazz would be a natural at it—or…whatever it was Smokescreen thought he was doing. It had become nothing more than a catch-all excuse for the mech's misbehavior and irresponsibility. Disappear for three megacycles and come back covered in other bots' paint and reeking of energon? Cultural research. Up and wander off to Uraya with no warning, come back with a trail of minor infractions and a new modification? Cultural research. Get marched into his office by the enforcers, scuffed and dented up after visiting one of the highly illegal underground gladiatorial rings? Cultural. Fragging. Research.

To be fair, it was purely Smokescreen's antics that had worn his patience with cultural research entirely out, but he didn't doubt for one second that any bot with half a processor would take the first opportunity to abuse the privilege. Jazz had one of the better processors on Cybertron, and charm enough to get away with anything, up to and probably including murder. He could only hope that the inclination to seize that opportunity hadn't hit yet.

Jazz shrugged eloquently before reaching back for the platter of appetizers. "Cultural research. Look, there's my marque to consider. The post-Revel commissions helped a lot, but a bit of work here and there as a cultural researcher will take care of the remainder of it in short order. And believe me, the quicker you pay off your marque, the better. The interest just kills."

Prowl glared.

Jazz pointed his rust stick at him. "Added bonus? I've been meaning to do some traveling anyway, check out the local colors and get fresh inspiration for a new composition. I've got some great synergy going between these two functions."

Jazz's visor dimmed in a fit of pique when Prowl remained silent, instead simply bringing his cube of energon (filtered high-grade, just a dash of mercury) up to his mouth for a calm sip, blatant disbelief radiating throughout the prolonged gesture.

Jazz huffed in mock-offense, throwing himself back against his chair in a deep slump, a move that would normally reek of laziness and poor manners—practically a crime in and of itself within Praxus, but this was Jazz. What should have been a lazy sprawl instead seemed more like a Prime lounging in his throne. Prowl didn't doubt for an astrosecond that Jazz had spent countless cycles perfecting the move for just that effect.

"It was either get out of Protihex, or murder half my guild in their recharge." Jazz finally conceded after a sullen silence.

"And the truth rears its head." Prowl murmured.

"Laugh it up, mech. It's a nightmare back home."

It was, too. The time before and immediately after a Revel was hectic, but this aftermath had been particularly rough. Commissions had rained down on Choragus in the wake of his performance, with all of the most experienced musicians being tapped for projects, and a unusually high number of aspiring initiates had petitioned for consideration of the guild; as the Alpha Maestro, that meant he had to weed through the candidates, then get them settled in and work with Glyph to determine the marque prices. In the midst of all that, he had to make time to address the thousand-and-one concerns from his guild members that absolutely demanded his attention, handle auditions to fill Downbeat and Soundwave's positions, and somehow find time to work on his own projects.

He hadn't even been able to count on his friends to lighten his mood. With the Revels over, Mirage had no more excuse to ignore the duties of his caste, and while that sometimes meant hunting turbo-foxes and evening parties, it more often meant representing the citizens of his district in affairs of state, as well as serving on one of the legislature committees. Mirage was going to be very, very busy with the Appropriations council for the foreseeable future.

Tracks was off in a fine sulk, either missing Mirage or still angry about their fight towards the end of the Revels. Needless to say, he wanted no part of that. Tracks would right himself and be fit for public in a few more mega-cycles. Blaster had buried himself back in his work, and the last thing a musician did was disturb another musician's creative process. Blaster would surface again when he was ready. Or at least when he needed to refuel. Prowl had to return to Praxus, his diplomatic duties fulfilled. One of the Lords Marshall couldn't very well lounge about in another city-state on a mere whim.

He decided getting away before he did something...drastic...would be the best move.

"So you submitted a request to observe Praxus?"

Jazz nodded. "It *had* been on my to-do list, anyway. I've had a floating request for a while from one of your Councilors, and this seemed as good a time as any to do some research into the Gardens. Especially since I'll be getting a fantastic tour guide to show me around."

Prowl tilted his head in curiosity. "Oh?"

"Indeed. I imagine we'll tour the Gardens today and tomorrow, and...I'll let the next two deca-cycles take care of themselves."

Prowl, who had been reaching for a rust stick of his own, stopped short, surprise plain on his features. "I'm to be your guide?""

"Well, it seems only fair that you show me around Praxus, especially considering I played the doting host for you during the Revels."

"And what lucky happenstance, that you arrive at the beginning of my quartex of leave."

Jazz stole the last rust stick with a mischievous grin.

Jazz stuck to Prowl's side as they wandered the Crystal Garden, and if anyone was startled to see one of the Lords Marshall-and Sentinel Prime's tactical officer at that-acting as a tour-guide to Protihex's Alpha Maestro, well at least Jazz didn't have to worry about bots suddenly insinuating themselves into his company, seeking to either learn gossip from him or pry into his business. It was something both mechs would readily admit they appreciated. Prowl paused in his description of proper cultivation when Jazz suddenly stopped, slowly turning to take in the full view of the Garden.

The crystals that normally grew outside of Praxus were pale comparisons to the Crystal Gardens here. They were carefully tended, but there was something organic in their growth that indicated that each distinct growth was left to flourish on its own. Gardeners kept the crystals healthy and well pruned, but there were no signs of sculpting. Instead crystal formation of every size shape and color were scattered throughout the Garden, accented here and there with fountains or the occasional bench.

"This is stunning, Prowl!"

"We try to keep it up." Prowl agreed, pleased to find an appreciative audience for one of his city's greatest works of art.

"Is this where you got the crystal to use for my gifts?" Jazz asked, his processor turning to thoughts of the different crystals orbs that were scattered across his office.

"Technically yes; the crystals were originally shavings from various samplings throughout the garden that I kept and cultured."

Jazz looked surprised. "They let you do that?"

Prowl's mouth curved up into a wry smile . "Well, you're supposed to wait for one of the pruning cycles or make a request to one of the gardeners, but they generally don't mind if you break off a tiny sampling. Just so long as you don't run off with an entire bush."

Jazz looked appalled. "But, but that's practically desecrating the display! If you pulled that stunt in Protihex…" Jazz shook his head. "It would be a horror show, plain and simple."

"That's one of the differences between Praxus and Protihex. Praxus is much more philosophical in our art. Our art, such that it is, occurs more as mental exercise than with an eye toward display. As such, it is intended to facilitate contemplation. It is no great loss if bits of crystal are taken for ones on private pursuit. The crystal will grow back, so why quibble?"

Prowl moved to stand behind Jazz, gesturing to a cropping of pale orange crystal. "Protihexan artists would tame this, craft it into something elaborate and aesthetically pleasing. Protihexan artists as a whole enter the artistic process with an optic toward inflicting their will on the medium. Praxians instead enhance what is already there. Removing a bit won't alter the overall form; do the same with a Protihexan sculpture and you have ruined a piece. "

Jazz frowned thoughtfully. "That's…a very abstract approach to art."

"Most of our art is abstract and impression, because it makes one think. Your brand of art is aimed towards evoking beauty and emotion with displays of skill and technical mastery. Both very valid but very different methodologies."

Prowl stepped backwards and gestured further down the path. "Shall we keep going? I think you'll like where we're headed."

"Sure, sure." Jazz's voice was distracted as he stared contemplatively at the crystal, then back at Prowl's retreating figure.

They wandered further down the paths, debating what exactly the purpose of art was, and just how much of it was influenced by what the viewer perceived as opposed to what the artist intended. Though they had been careful to keep their voices low so as not to disturb any of the other visitors, the argument had escalated to the point that Jazz finally halted in the middle of the path, hands planted on his hip plating as he glared up at Prowl.

"That's utter slag, and you know it! Art has to reflect something in reality, real beings, real everyday lives, tangible subject matter! There are rules and standards! By your logic, someone could dash a few splotches of paint here and there on a canvas and pass it off as an abstract representation of…of…the pathos of the artistic spirit or some nonsense! Art for art's sake is a farce."

Prowl, optics bright with amusement, pointed over at an isolated hollow within the Gardens. "Perhaps that will appease you, my Lord Critic."

Jazz scoffed at Prowl's jest, but obliged his request easily enough. There was no denying that he was truly enjoying every astrosecond.

"Primus." Jazz whispered reverently, as Prowl strode up behind him.

A gleaming silver crystal dominated the hollow, sloping curves and sharp crests creating the façade of a closed bud. A thin crystal shard branched out from the mass, resembling nothing so much as a saber hilt. Delicate veins of silver and glowing blue crystal had spread out from the seams around the shard, and worked their way down and across the ground before climbing upwards again to twine around some of the other formations near the hollow.

"This is the Crystal Matrix. Every crystal formation within this garden originated here. It was gifted to Praxus by a Protihexan artist before the Golden Age began, during the last skirmishes of the Quintesson war."

Jazz nodded, unconsciously leaning back into Prowl as he continued speaking. "As the legend goes, Draco, a great hero of Praxus, journeyed to the Western fronts during the Quintesson War despite his intended mate, a Protihexan weapon smith, predicting they would never see each other again if he left. Before his departure, he went to his beloved once more, and she gifted him her masterpiece, a sabre of quality unmatched by any. In turn, he presented her with his sword, that he would reclaim when he returned. "

Jazz frowned. "Uh, Prowl? All the Tri-Torus states fell during the Quintesson War."

"I'm quite aware."

"Are you about to go all morbid on me, Lord Marshall? If so, I'll not be impressed. I get enough tragedy and angst in our operas."

"Hush." Prowl admonished, though it was ruined by the obvious amusement in his tone. "As I was saying, he was gifted with his beloved's masterpiece, a sabre of quality unmatched by any save Solus Prime. Now, as you know, the Western forces were scattered and the entire region fell. Protihex was taken over by force and everyone enslaved once more by the Quintessons. Despite knowing they would likely never see each other again, the weapon smith never stopped yearning for Draco. She would routinely slip away from her captors, returning to the scene of their last farewell and any that were nearby spoke amongst themselves of a hauntingly beautiful aria being sung. It was during one such occurrence that Draco's spark-ghost supposedly appeared to his beloved, dancing with her one last time before fading away to join the Matrix."

"I don't like where this is headed."

"Quiet, you. Anyway, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to be without her beloved hero, the weapon smith pierced her spark with Draco's sword so that she could follow him into the Matrix. When her frame was finally discovered an orn later, all that was left of it was her spark casing and the sword, which had begun to crystalize. When the Quintessons were finally driven off Cybertron, the crystal, which had grown steadily in size was passed to Praxus to be laid to rest with Draco. The crystal kept growing however, until it's what you see today."

Jazz glared up at Prowl. "Didn't we just agree to avoid morbid and horrifying?"

"Oh please, it was hardly that bad. Every sparkling gets told about the legend of Draco and the Crystal Matrix sooner or later. It's not like it's actually true."

Jazz smirked. "Come now, all legends have their beginning in truth."

"Well, it's all a bit too esoteric for me." Prowl traced a winding vein from the Crystal Matrix with the edge of his foot plating. "Does the tour please your lofty sensibilities, Alpha Maestro?"

"Oh, I suppose." Jazz drawled before turning back to face Prowl. "I will say that I hadn't expected a warrior such as yourself to be so knowledgeable of the arts."

"Scholar." Prowl corrected.

"Prowl…you serve as Sentinel Prime's tactical officer and you head the Central division of Cybertron's Enforcers. Not exactly scholarly qualifications, mech."

"I might serve in a more martially aligned function than normally expected, but I assure you I was raised a scholar."

"…this is another one of those cultural differences. Care to enlighten me?"

"Always. Praxus holds a more intricate concept of scholarship. All of our scholars are trained in philosophy and martial arts because the two are closely intertwined. We are also expected to master a wide variety of knowledges; the histories, the basic sciences, visual arts, and at least two or three elective fields. I chose to pursue more militaristic studies, and excelled in all of them. I'm a military scholar, but not necessarily a warrior proper. If you threw me on the front lines, I would do a passable job, but it would be a waste of most of my talents. Instead, I serve as a military advisor and tactician."

They had picked their way back across the Gardens during Prowl's explanation, pausing at one of the blue croppings of crystals.

"Here." Prowl reached over and snapped off a small piece of crystal, ignoring Jazz's flinch. "I'm curious to see what you'll do with it."

"…can I put it back?"

"No."

"You desecrated that sculpture!"

"It's not a sculpture."

"It is too!"

"Jazz…we've been over this…"

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

" _ **No."**_

Jazz crossed his arms as he faced down Glyph over the screen of the comm unit in his suite, a scowl marring his usually jovial expression.

Glyph's lip plating compressed into a thin line. "It  _wasn't_  a request, Alpha Maestro. Sentinel Prime wishes to commemorate his bi-millennial anniversary, and he wants the best. The Coliseum is being reopened to host a gladiatorial games, and there will be parades and festivities, and staggering amounts of energon, and he wants music." Glyph gestured angrily at the screen. "He wants the best, and he won't settle for just any guild member; he wants the guild masters."

"Ignoring the fact that I want  _nothing_  to do with this senseless spectacle, I have standing obligations, Patroness! It's nearing the concert cycles, and we're booked nearly every mega-cycle!

Glyph jabbed a finger at the view screen. "We'll have to reschedule, Jazz. If the Prime wants the Alpha Maestro, he  _gets_  the Alpha Maestro, and the Alpha Maestro better fragging well  _grovel_ at the privilege! This isn't the Revels; you don't get to flout authority at this level and—" Glyph broke off as a loud cacophony echoed outside her chamber.

Jazz startled, recognizing the sound of shattering crystal. "Was that a chandelier?!"

Glyph's buried her head in her hands. "I'll kill them…look, I don't care about what crisis of conscious you're dealing with, just do it." Glyph cut the connection, clearly nearing wit's end. Jazz didn't think it was just his unwillingness to perform that had her riled up—if Sentinel Prime had descended on Protihex with his usual overbearing demands then it was likely the entire city was in an uproar.

The fragger. Jazz's hand clenched into a fist and he fought down the urge to plant it through the wall. He doubted the proprietor would understand nor pardon the damage.

"I take it you received the invitation?"

Jazz glanced over his shoulder as Prowl entered the room, he himself having stepped out to speak with a messenger from Sentinel Prime's staff.

"You have to actually ask for it to be an invitation, mech. I was summoned." Jazz's armor rippled in disgust. "You can't think this is right."

Prowl ran a hand over his chevron in frustration. "It's not about what I think, Jazz. It's about what Prime wants, and the politics of it."

"Politics!?" Jazz spat, "How is this political! This is just senseless carnage!"

Prowl took a seat, shaking his head in disagreement. "You're too emotional about this to see my point; take a step back and look at it from a clinical angle. Yes, it's brutal. Yes, it's extravagant and incredibly egotistical, but it's a brilliant political move nonetheless. Sentinel knows he's not the most beloved Prime Cybertron has had, or even the most respected, and even the Council is starting to lose patience with him now that public favor has turned so far against him. The Games will distract them."

"No surprise there." Jazz muttered as he searched out a decanter of refined ultra-grade.

The public will leap at the chance for entertainment and simple relaxation that they so rarely see, and it will pacify most of them. This plays to their baser instincts, and they will love him for it. The Council will handle much the same way, however much they like to hide behind caste rank and delude themselves they are better than the common bot."

"No one's that stupid, Prowl." Jazz plunked two micro-cubes on the table and filled them to the brim.

"You've never sat through a Council session." Prowl grumbled darkly, poking at his cube briefly. "Most Cybertronians are exactly that stupid, and the rest easily swayed by the mob. Individuals are intelligent, but Sentinel Prime doesn't intend to engage the individual; he's going to unify them with the spectacle and play to their accumulated whim. He'll be coasting off the favor from that move for at least a few centuries." Prowl lamented, slamming back his micro-cube.

Jazz mirrored the motion and poured them another round. "This is tasteless and wrong. We ended the Games after the Quintessons were defeated. The only gladiatorial rings left are the ones operating on the fringes of society and in Kaon, and that's completely rock bottom! I don't compose to glorify the exploitation of the downtrodden or those who have no choice but to slaughter themselves for others' amusement! There's no beauty or glory in this."

"No, there isn't." Prowl stared down at his cube, then finished that one off as well.

"You're one of his advisors; can't you say something? Stop this nonsense?"

Prowl sighed wearily. "Sentinel Prime does not listen to anyone or anything when it comes to moderation. He's set in his ways and takes criticism very poorly. He only listens to me when he wants something destroyed."

Jazz laughed bitterly. "He should be all audials, then. He's certainly headed down the right path for that."

 

* * *

 

"What a mess."

The guard stared down at the gruesome remains of what had once been a gladiator. The mech hadn't been fast enough to avoid a point-blank shop from a modified fusion cannon, and it had reduced his frame to little more than molten slag. He wasn't even sure there was anything they could salvage out of the frame.

Another guard approached wincing at the twisted pile of metal and…goo that had once been a fellow mechanism. "Aw, frag. The boss is going to insufferable now. That's the third one this orn."

"Yeah…I think this was the one with all the Minicon symbiotes."

"Really? I hope they weren't still Linked, then. The backlash might do 'em in, too."

The first guard shrugged. "Probably best that way. It's rough enough taking care of the fighters; we don't have the resources to spare nursing a batch of symbiotes that can't even defend themselves without a Host mech."

"Did you see them around anywhere?"

"Nah."

The two guards remained quiet for a long moment, then one transformed into a tow truck, hooking the remains with his cable. "Well, let's get this cleaned up." The second guard transformed into another truck, and the two of them sped off, the remains dragging behind them.

Partially hidden behind a wall, Soundwave shuddered at the callousness. Was this to be his fate, then? Slaughtered and dumped out behind the rings like trash? He didn't doubt his deactivation would come sooner rather than later; he was no warrior, and even though he'd used his telepathy to glean what advantages he could, it would only get him so far.

Soundwave let himself slide down to the ground, resigned to his fate, and tired. He was so tired. After his sentencing, the first thing the guards had done was disable all of his mods, including the one that kept his telepathy in check. Now, every thought battered at his processor, and it was impossible to find room for himself in his own mind. It was a blessing and a curse, because it allowed him to predict his opponents moves in combat, but the drain on his energon levels was horrible; it was a very real chance that the managers might write him off as cheaper dead than alive, just because of the credits he diverted from their hands.

Unable to fully block out the thoughts around him, Soundwave steeled himself as brushes of fear, rage, and bitterness washed over him. A few splashes of relief—Games had been halted until Sentinel Prime's anniversary when they'd all be sent to the Coliseum—despair; that one wouldn't last the night, planning on self-terminating—determination and hope…what?

Soundwave latched onto that last set of emotion, letting it draw him towards a collective of five minds…no six, albeit a very faint sixth. Symbiotes!

Soundwave focused his telepathy on the collective, finding some relief in the act simply because focusing on a particular mind did more to grant him relief than anything save turning it off.

/We'll ask the new on they brought in a few decacycles ago. He's a Host!/

/He's from Protihex, Frenzy. There's no way an artist is going to survive very long in the rings. We'll be back at square one again!/

/We don't exactly have an option here, Ravage. Ratbat was still Linked with that stupid fragger when he got slagged, and if he doesn't get a Host to anchor him he's going to fade! We all are, at this rate./

/What even makes you think he'll do it, Rumble? Simply being a Host doesn't make him beholden to free symbiotes at all./

/Laserbeak said she and Buzzsaw could trade him a chip loaded with combat protocols that they stole off of one of the gladiators. It's more than a fair trade for anchoring Ratbat! And it's only for a joor or two; just enough to stabilize him!/

/Again, you expect him to be willing Rumble./

Soundwave made his way down the corridors of the gladiatorial pit, mostly ignored by the other gladiators, who were more concerned with themselves and surviving another day. It was a good offer; he could easily anchor upwards of twenty symbiotes with no problem. One would be no drain on his resources, and he could use the combat chip. Needed it, to be honest.

He found them a few breems later, all of them huddled in an isolated corner of the pit. He doubted any of them were out of their youngling stages; they were small, even for Minicons, and none of them even had weapon systems. Those were the last things to develop on a youngling before they upgraded to adult frames. How in Primus' name had younglings ended up here!?

He stepped into view, and the ones still online bristled defensively. The sixth…Ratbat...lay limply on the floor, pitiful squeaks erupting from his vocalizer as he shuddered.

"Soundwave: does not intend to harm. Heard conversation."

The red one—Frenzy? Rumble?—perked up instantly. "I told you guys!"

"Why would you do this?" Ravage demanded, placing a wary paw over Ratbat. "Nothing's free."

"We're paying him, Ravage! That's why." Buzzsaw reached into his subspace and pulled out a chip. "We took this off of one of the gladiators. He had a long run going, before they pit him against D-16. We took his combat chip before the salvagers got to him. Save Ratbat, and it's yours."

All of them needed saving, Soundwave mused. Ratbat was in the most danger as he'd been Linked to their Host when he was killed, but none of the Minicons were precisely well off. They were clearly malnourished and in sub-standard health; he could see the beginnings of spark-fade in all of them.

Laserbeak nudged at Ratbat with her helm. "Please. It's just for a joor or two; you don't have—"

"Soundwave: acknowledges."

Soundwave gently picked up Ratbat, letting his mind wrap around the youngest Minicon as a plethora of data cables extended out from his armor. One he plugged into Ratbat; the others he left extended in open invitation. "Observation: All symbiotes in need of anchor."

Looks of blatant disbelief rocked over all of their faces before Rumble and Frenzy each lunged for a cable, hardly thinking about questioning such an offer; he didn't blame them. They were showing the largest signs of spark-fade besides Ratbat.

"We have nothing else to offer, musician."

"Payment: already offered. All symbiotes: anchor."

Buzzsaw and Laserbeak shared a long look between themselves before each one reached for a cable as well. Finally, it was just down to Soundwave and Ravage.

"I don't know what your angle is, but if you try anything weird, I'll find a way to kill you." The femme's voice was dark as she edged around her fellow Minicons, covering them protectively. "Why?"

Soundwave was silent a long moment, a memory in the back of his mind from many vorns past replaying, only it was him demanding to know why a stranger better off than he would be bothered to take him in. Truly, the past repeated itself. Soundwave inclined his head much the same way Jazz had before he replied with the same words that had changed his life. "Why not?"

 

* * *

 

Prowl sighed internally as he straightened the two scarlet red leather sashes that crossed his chest plates, wishing yet again that Sentinel Prime would return to his senses. His rank decals had been polished and applied earlier by Jazz's helpful hands before the Alpha Maestro wandered off, no doubt to get in the last few moments of fuming he could before the processions started.

"Nice paint job. I'd heard rumors that the Protihexans had gotten hold of you."

Prowl heaved a sigh as a red and white Seeker strode over to his side after locking the door, the rank decals accenting his leather sash proclaiming him to be the Cybertronian Air Commander. "Starscream."

"Prowl." Starscream reached out to adjust the rank decals on his door panels before speaking. Satisfied with his work, Starscream stepped back and met Prowl's gaze with his own brilliant red optics. "Lord Marshall, your Prime is honking mad and needs to be shot."

Leave it to Starscream to speak treason as if discussing the weather.

"Illegality and acts of treason aside, that's especially appalling since you're his bodyguard."

Starscream smirked. "No, hear me out. If we shoot him he'll have to go to the medics, and then we'll have them fix whatever is glitching his processor while he's in stasis."

"And if there's no processor glitch?"

Starscream froze. "I refuse to accept a reality where this is normal behavior for a Prime, and not manifestation of a particularly bizarre glitch."

"I thought it was your job to keep him grounded in sanity."

"Hard to do when he's running around Cybertron getting cratered. Besides, he likes you best. We don't even get to argue with him anymore. It's all, 'Quiet, Starscream' this and "Know your place, Skywarp' that."

Prowl's door panels twitched in resignation. "Then we're  _all_  out of look, because he's not listening to anyone then."

Starscream sighed. "Well, something needs to be done. All this frippery is ridiculous. The blasted fool has scarlet banners and flags covering every free surface of the Coliseum, and then that statue…"

Prowl shuddered as he snapped an amber visor over his optics. "Do not, _do not_ , mention that abomination."

"How can you avoid it? Can you believe he actually called in a sculptor to add in his scars?"

Prowl froze in horror. "Surely you didn't come here to depress me further."

"Why not? Misery loves company, after all. But no, I just wanted to inform you that the opening ceremony is about to start. We need to get up to the balconies."

Prowl nodded, the two of them falling into step side by side as they headed towards Sentinel Prime.

So much red… red banners commemorating Sentinel Prime's bi-millennial hung from the rafters of the Coliseum, while Cybertron's crest had been splayed across a red flag that dangled from the balcony that Sentinel Prime sat in, flanked by three Seeker bodyguards. The next balcony to the right housed Prowl and another Seeker that bore the crest of the Air Commander. His orchestra would be housed below that balcony, and swaths of scarlet—almost the same shade as Sentinel Prime's accenting—were draped across their seats.

He didn't want to see this. Didn't want to contribute to it. Jazz stared down at the blue visor in his hands and gently pulled it off, replacing it with smoky black visor. His normal decals and accenting had been blacked out as well; his own—and apparently the performing ensembles' Jazz amended as he looked over at his assembled guild members—not-quite subtle protest.

The coordinator gestured at him, indicating it was time to begin. Jazz pulled a pure black conductor's baton from is subspace, bracing himself once more before he strode through the opening doors of the Coliseum.

Up in the balcony, Prowl startled at Jazz's appearance while Starscream made a low noise.

"Apparently someone else realizes what a mess this is. I'll give your Alpha Maestro points for intelligence and basic decency."

"He was…very vocal about his displeasure earlier." Prowl chanced a glance over at Sentinel Prime's box, but if the mech was displeased, he certainly didn't let it show. Prowl felt a bit of his concern evaporate; Sentinel Prime was not the sort to hide displeasure, diplomacy be damned. Jazz performed a crisp bow just deep enough to be acceptable. There was none of his usual grace or emotion in the move; only the barest of necessities. Sentinel Prime waved Jazz onward with a flourish, and Prowl didn't know whether to laugh or mourn that Sentinel hadn't realized what was going on, caught up as he was in his ego.

"I can't believe this is happening." Prowl muttered somberly as Jazz struck up his players.

Starscream grimaced. "I can't believe we're letting it."

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter exists because Taralynden is a goddess among betas who helped me through my writer's block (Soundwave was an uncooperative tool, fyi), then looked it over for me. It would have been another two or three months before you guys saw this otherwise. Thank you!! My computer is still being funny about coding and keeps dropping changes I made, so anything wrong falls squarely on my shoulders and not Taralynden. ^_^ Anyway, there's too much discrepancy between the Aligned novels/War & Fall of Cybertron/the Prime cartoon, so I'm going to take a pass on following the timeline and just make sure I hit the major events. Anyway, Trinket's is still pre-war, but the end is beginning!

 

 

 

Jazz had worked himself up to a fine sulk by the final cycle of Sentinel Prime's Games. He'd all but retreated from the public except when strictly necessary, sequestering himself in the small office that had been granted to him while he was at the Coliseum.

Blaster wasn't even sure of what had actually pushed Jazz over the edge; there were so many options. It could have been the mere fact that the gladiatorial pit had been reopened, which was enough to frustrate any thinking bot. It could have been the fact that Jazz's protest by blotting out all his rank and award decals had been misconstrued as a fashion statement and was currently being mimicked by most of the upper castes in attendance. Blaster could understand that; he _shared_ the sentiment, for Pit's sake. Their ensemble had actually had to _reverse_ their paintjobs once the trend took hold, simply to avoid being categorized with the other idiots sporting the look. It was insulting to think that a clever, subtle little protest had been so horribly taken out of context.

The final indignity had been Sentinel Prime congratulating Jazz on a "masterful" performance.

"Commanding" he called it.

"Excellent."

It had been the most dreary performance of Jazz's career—of _all_ of their careers—and no doubt of it, but Sentinel's staff and attendants had been quick to heap their own praises upon them after Prime's example.

All of them!

Oh, some they could forgive; there were some who just didn’t have a discerning audial, perhaps having never heard anything close to their skill level before. There might even be a few who just plain didn’t know good music _anyway,_ and based their appraisals upon the proverbial mob. Sad, but somewhat forgivable.

But the ones who knew? That was the true horror. However uncultured Sentinel Prime might be, the sycophants around him _weren’t_ , and no doubt a few of them knew that Jazz’s performance had been lackluster. Oh, it was technically precise and flawlessly played, but the Alpha Maestro put more spark and flair into _tuning_ _instruments_ than he did that performance. Not one of them had the audacity to say anything contrary to their Prime’s opinion, however, spineless cowards that they were. The only ones not bleating recycled praise at them were Prowl—who was smart enough to just keep quiet on the entire issue—and Sentinel's chief bodyguard Starscream, whose comments about Sentinel's _discerning_ tastes had been laden with some distinctly mean-spirited barbs, subtle though they might have been. It would be decacycles before Sentinel even suspected he'd been so cruelly mocked by the flier, and by then far too late to actually do anything about it lest the mech admit he’d been made a complete fool of.

He and Jazz had quickly caught on to the digs, as had Tracks and most of their fellow musicians. One didn't survive the notoriously complex (and vicious) realm of Protihexan social interactions without learning how to detect—or deliver—a scathing verbal assault within the layers of a well-crafted back-handed compliment early on, to say nothing of outright verbal assassinations. (Many, many eons later Tracks would look upon the monstrous horror that was Earth’s realm of celebrity gossip with fond nostalgia).

With Prime's commendation making the rounds among the nobles and upper castes, the mid-ranked bots had been quick to extoll Jazz's performance and none of the lower castes were willing to counter the praise being flung around by their “betters” or seemingly disrespect Jazz’s own high rank. It was all flattery and insincere praise; Blaster honestly didn’t think any of them had really listened with a critical audial; they were too busy reveling in the violence and pandering to _pay_ _attention_.

Rather than risk losing his temper at the wrong bot at what was most definitely the wrong place and time, Jazz had simply removed himself from the public at large (only to subsequently be lauded as "mysterious" and "elusive", though Blaster hadn't the spark to reveal that little tidbit to Jazz just yet).

"This is intolerable."

Blaster simply passed Jazz a cube of high-grade and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, but what can you do? It’s all social power-plays and political maneuvering anyway. Every two-bit social climber here is going to do whatever’s necessary to fit in and move into the right circles; right now, that apparently means regurgitating whatever you do."

"How wonderful. I’ve always wanted to be a figurehead of idiocy." Jazz's voice was ripe with disdain.

"It's how the oil-cake jells, my mech."

"Apparently." Jazz's fans whirred in agitation. "I think part of the reason this frags me off so much is that...slag, I don't know. I think I just expected better out of everyone."

"You should know better. Our society isn’t exactly geared towards bettering anything lately, unless it’s the lives of the ones in power."

"......you're about to make this a full-on political thing, aren't you?" Jazz speared Blaster with a weary look.

"Only because it is."

"Nah, I'm pretty sure this is firmly a "bots are stupid thing". Jazz let himself slouch down in his chair, arms dangling back and over the sides as he titled his head up to stare at the ceiling. Whether or not he wanted this discussion, it was coming. For vorns now, any hint of social debate would see Blaster leaping into the fray. It was almost like clockwork, right down to the astrosecond. As a matter of fact…

3…

2...

1...

"You're right; bots _are_ stupid, but they're a product of their environment. These castes we're forced into stagnate thought and social conscience. Everyone wants to be free to reach for something beyond what they’re sparked as, but it just _doesn’t happen_. You either end up with bots that don’t even bother trying to achieve anything more than what they began as, or with bots so desperate for _any_ chance at change that they seek it by any means necessary.”

Blaster reached for the cube of energon Jazz had been apathetically nursing and took a drink. “Like right now. Right now, everyone is scrambling trying to mimic our earlier paint jobs because the Prime liked it; they didn’t even care about the whys or wherefores. Prime likes it, so they follow that trend in hopes that they might be accepted into higher social circles, and eventually raised to a better rank.”

Jazz briefly wondered if he might not be better off kicking Blaster out of the office as well, decided that it would probably be more than trouble than it was worth, and resigned himself to the topic at hand.

Unaware (or uncaring) of Jazz’s inner turmoil, Blaster continued to speak, on a roll. “…and you can bet that it’s going to keep going until you end up with some poor laborer blowing their credits on a repaint that's already out of style by the time it reaches them instead of on something useful, like upgrades or more advanced function protocols. The castes are bad business, my mech. Bad business all around. We need to _destroy_ the system, start with something fresh."

Jazz sighed, actively entering the conversation with a shrug of his shoulders. “You make a point, but that doesn’t mean that castes are a bad idea. They aren’t just assigned randomly; you are sparked into where you belong, and Cybertron as a whole is better for it. A mech might dream of something more, but rarely do they have the capacity to actually _do_ it.”

Blaster shook his head in disbelief. “How can you say that!? You’re _Protihexan_ , guild-raised through and through. That guild system is the antithesis of the castes!”

“Hardly.”

“What?”

Jazz straightened up, a solemn expression falling over his face. “Everyone _thinks_ that the guilds are a meritocracy and that they can advance through it as they please, but that’s not the case. Each ranking can be viewed as its own caste. You, as a Savant, are part of the upper caste of the guild. You have the better skill, so get access to better training and more perks because it’s better to invest in you than a low ranked initiate or acolyte. We expected that out of you, however, because you were _sparked_ to it; you were _created_ to make music. Your natural talent reflects that, and it’s worth it to the guild to make the deeper investment in you.

On the other hand, take…Trill. Trill has been chasing after you since you both were initiates, but he’s still an adept, though not necessarily through any fault of his own. He works just as hard as any bot in the guild, but for all of his effort he’s just not cut out to be a Savant; eventually he’ll make master rank by sheer virtue of experience, but it’ll be a long and hard journey until then. He’s better than the common breed of musician—good enough to gain acceptance to the guild—but he just doesn’t have that innate genius that my Savants or Masters have. That doesn’t mean he won’t advance, just like it doesn’t mean a bot of a lower caste can’t eventually rise up. The guild doesn’t just reward talent; we also reward hard work. It’s just that hard work alone only gets you so far.”

Blaster frowned, unnerved to think that Protihex wasn’t too unlike the rest of Cybertron after all. “If it’s so much like a caste, how do you explain the constant influx of initiates? Most of the petitioners aren’t even Protihexan, and are all over the place in terms of the castes they’re originally from.”

Jazz’s somber expression deepened. “For every one initiate Choragus accepts, the Patroness, maestros and I turn away thousands more. _Thousands,_ Blaster. You can’t fault them their enthusiasm, but they just aren’t good enough. The auditions aren’t there for the 99% that come from guild ancestry; they have the ancestral coding and innate talent for the arts; the auditions are there for the 1%; the prodigies and natural talents that we haven’t previously discovered or produced ourselves. The guilds are not that different; the outsiders looking in just don’t realize it.” 

“That’s seriously fragged up.” Blaster scowled down at his energon—well Jazz’s energon—and after a long moment pushed it back across the table. Jazz took a long drink himself, then set it aside to continue making his point.

“Don’t be so quick to knock it—you were that 1%, once upon a time. If you hadn’t been put through our auditioning board, you’d be sitting at some terminal in Altihex right now, monitoring deep space signals or comm chatter or Primus-knows-what because that’s what your base coding is best for. Your creators wanted better for you, however, so they indulged your musical inclinations and arranged for you to audition. You weren’t all that good—a rare few auditioners actually _are_ —but you had incredible potential. Your situation alone defeats your argument; there is no stagnation because the castes reward effort and evolution, just like the guilds reward hard work as well as innate talent.” 

“In theory, maybe. When was the last time it actually _happened_ , though?”

Jazz had to concede the point on that one. There _was_ a lot of class tension on Cybertron—this whole ridiculous display was actually born of the attempt to offset some of it, sadly enough. A bot was assigned a caste and duty from the moment they emerged from the Well of All Sparks, and that was almost always the end of it. Scientists were allowed to choose their field of study after an extensive primary education, and Prime allowed Protihex to function under its guild system so long as things remained orderly. But what was a 5% chance of some sort of freedom versus the other 95%—an assigned place and life. It might be fine for the early stages of a bots life, but The-Powers-That-Be didn’t seem to understand—or care—that beings changed, especially ones as long-lived as they were.

“Fine. The system _would_ work, if it weren’t for the elite sticking their helms so far up their afts they don’t know whether to speak or backfire. Fix that, Cybertron goes back on track. No need to wipe out the entire system, though.” Jazz declared with an airy wave of his hand.

Blaster paused over the cube of high-grade they’d been passing back and forth. “…you _are_ the elite.”

Jazz boggled. “…I’ve got some clout here and there, but I’m hardly one of the elite.”

“Really?” Blaster began to tick each point off on his fingers. “You move across any social circle you want as if you belong there: only the extremely arrogant, extremely entitled, or extremely stupid do that. Two: you don’t _have_ a base function; you were guild-born and bred, and if you ever decided to leave the guild, your only problem would be figuring out what you want to do. Bots _kill_ for that sort of opportunity. Three: being a guild master in Protihex is pretty much the equivalent of being a senator or council mech. You wield more functional authority than some nobles. Four, you’re a celebrity. You could get away with slag that would have a lower ranked mech in line for the smelter.” Blaster smirked. “Need I continue?”

Jazz glared. “Give me my fragging cube back.”

Blaster laughed as Jazz snatched his cube of energon out of his hands, enjoying Jazz’s unease. “Face it, _Alpha Maestro_ , you can protest all you want, but all you’re doing is railing against the vagaries of your own class.”

Blaster grinned as Jazz studiously said nothing, just took a calm drink of his energon while no doubt envisioning himself beating Blaster about the helm with his cyber-cello. Well...probably not the cyber-cello; Jazz would just as soon as kill himself as harm a musical instrument.

Blaster had to admit, however, that Jazz was nothing like other bots of his rank. For all that Jazz did possess power and authority, he much preferred the passive route. He asked instead of ordered, ignored rank in favor of ability, and was always willing to give opportunities to bots that would be absolutely unheard of anywhere else. Jazz was the ideal for what the castes _could_ be, but ideals didn’t get one very far at all on Cybertron. Jazz was a rarity, when he should have been the standard.

After a few breems of companionable silence, Jazz slid his cube of energon back over to Blaster and pulled out a blank pad of manuscript paper. Might as well get *some* work during this travesty of a celebration. “What we need is for the council to get knocked back into shape, get a better Prime. We replace the upper ranks with bots that are deserving of the rank. With the heads of state back in order, the castes will start operating properly. We need to clean house, not scrap the whole system.”

Blaster shook his head vehemently. “The whole system is inherently flawed because there is no freedom of choice. Why should my only options in life be a specific set of duties just because my coding is suited to it? The caste system teaches that freedom is the ability to contribute to the tasks that are appropriate and necessary to the caste you were born into. That’s not freedom; that’s organized slavery.”

Jazz frowned. “You’re missing the point; every bot is free to pursue what their coding allows; the castes merely organizes that into a coherent system. If you put forth unlimited choice, you would have chaos; bots would do whatever they wanted, whether they were suited to it or not. There would be no quality control, no standards. Some cut-rate keyboardist could waltz right in to the Harmonium and demand a spot in the orchestra! Two or three generations, it’ll be impossible to weed out the talent from the crushing mediocrity.” Jazz pointed sharply at Blaster as he reached for his energon. “I won’t stand for it.”

“What about those gladiators out there? You want them to just accept their fate?”

Jazz’s expression soured as he thought about the carnage occurring in the Coliseum.

“I think a mech should simply make the most of their lot, and strive to excel. Work their way out of their situation. It’s not impossible to advance oneself, provided you have the skills or savvy to pull it off. Besides, this is just stupidity at its gruesome best. If Sentinel had his processors completely up to spec, he wouldn’t be doing this anyway. I hate that he’s out there making a fool of everybody from senators to concession bots, and nobody seems to care that he’s having mechs _killed_ in the process.”

“Sentinel’s thrown open the energon stores and entertained the mob. The masses are now well-fueled, having fun, and complacent with their lot in life. What’s there to complain about?”

“My, you’re full of vitriol.”

“I’m sorry, which one of us barricaded themselves away in a huff?”

“…go away.”

There it was—that playful tone sneaking back into Jazz’s voice that indicated the mech’s sulk was finally breaking! A little longer and he might actually get the mech into something resembling a good mood before they had to venture back out into that pathetic farce of a celebration. Blaster pretended to consider for a few moments before “Nah…you know you love my company. Besides, you’ll need my superb innovation to freshen that piece there up a bit.”

Jazz scoffed. “If you’re referring to that Shock Pop trash that’s been making the rounds, forget about it. I will never understand your fascination with raucous dance-club tunes, or why you insist on trying to corrupt otherwise fantastic compositions with it. ”

“Hey! I—“

“Jazz!”

Jazz and Blaster jumped as Tracks burst into the room, obviously agitated. A few astroseconds later, Mirage appeared, shoving Tracks through the door so that they were both in the room and he could close the door before anyone else could start eavesdropping.

“We’ve been trying to reach you, but you wouldn’t answer!” Tracks accused.

Blaster glanced back and forth between his occasional berth-mates and groaned inwardly as he picked up on the distress they were radiating. So much for trying to lighten Jazz’s mood. “My fault; I’ve been blocking our comm lines except for priority communications.”

“We’re not priority contacts!?”

Leave it to Tracks to fixate on something so trivial. “One, I didn’t even _know_ Mirage was here, so I wouldn't think to patch him in. Two? There's _obviously_ nothing preventing _you_ from tracking us down when you're so inclined. Like now."

"I think I'm insulted..." Tracks started, preparing to lay into the younger musician, but was interrupted by Jazz casually rapping on the side of his desk with his foot.

"I'm taking it this isn't just a brief social call; what's wrong?"

Jazz braced himself--he'd already expected less than pleasant news given the way Tracks and Mirage had descended on them. Mirage and Tracks were not prone to histrionic displays unless they were playing to a crowd—entirely unnecessary outside of Protihex’s complex web of social maneuvering—so it _had_ to be bad for them to appear so obviously unsettled.

Tracks and Mirage shared a long, somber glance before Mirage stepped forward to speak.

Definitely bad news if Mirage was doing the talking. Whenever bad news was broken to him, Mirage would be the one deliver it if the noblemech were around. Mirage was one of his oldest friends— _the_ oldest—and as such, had long experience with handling his fouler moods. Blaster and Tracks, while no less cherished, simply preferred to avoid setting him off as best they could.

"We found Soundwave."

“What?!” Jazz startled, half rising out of his seat in shock and worry.  

He’d spent a whole meta-cycle looking for his apprentice with nothing to show for it. He’d gone through with the decision to expel both Soundwave and Downbeat from the guild, but had actually set provisions in Soundwave’s dismissal for the mech to appeal the expulsion. He’d expected Soundwave’s petition for re-admittance within joors of the official ban, and had in fact already drawn up the documents for the reinstatement. There was no way in the known universe he’d seriously consider permanently casting out Soundwave for a first offence; he’d intended to make an example to the rest of his guild that none of them were above the rules, and to hopefully scare Soundwave straight.

Soundwave had never returned.

The first two mega-cycles he’d been sure that the mech was off somewhere in seclusion indulging a bad mood, the third mega-cycle he’d begun to worry that maybe Soundwave hadn’t received the terms of the ban and that he’d have to drag the Savant back to the guild in what promised to make for a fine spectacle.

The fourth mega-cycle had seen Tracks at his door with the latest gossip, chief amongst it that Soundwave had been carted off by the Enforcers. The Enforcers in turn informed him that Soundwave was en route to Iacon for questioning and judicial review. Prowl had been extremely helpful in clearing channels to find out what the charges were—it had to have been serious, for the mech to not be dealt with locally. Just as Protihex had been allowed to essentially self-govern themselves, so too had their legal proceedings been handled internally, usually through the guilds, or through the Protihexan Senate for only the most extreme incidents. That Soundwave had been removed from Protihexan authority was telling.

It had taken almost a full deca-cycle before he’d been able get into contact with anyone regarding Soundwave, and it had proved impossible for him to even so much as speak with the mech. In the end he’d submitted letters of reference and pleas for leniency on the matter, then attempted to at least have Soundwave’s case handled under Protihexan jurisdiction, all to no avail. Soundwave had vanished into the Iaconian legal system and he’d been left in the dark, always wondering in the back of his processor what had happened to his apprentice.

And now Tracks and Mirage were here, saying they’d found him…

Jazz forced himself to calm down and he straightened up, meeting Mirage’s gaze as he steeled himself. The news certainly wouldn’t be anything remotely close to good, he already knew that—there wasn’t a more callous or corrupt entity that passed for a legal system than what existed in Iacon—so it seemed it was time to see just how bad it _was._

 

* * *

 

 

Leapers, was it?

D-16 spared the slightest of glances for the mech that had been all but gutted by one of the leapers. That one had been a decent comrade in arms. Oh, it was obvious that he had not been bred to the arena--the armor was clearly civilian grade and high-quality besides--but the mech that called himself Soundwave was possessed of an uncanny instinct that bordered on the preternatural.

 _Had_ bordered. He was experienced enough to know a killing blow when it was inflicted, and the strike that had caught Soundwave? That was a killing blow; a one that led to a slow, painful end.

He himself had only just dodged out of the unexpected pounce and charge of the Leapers; Soundwave had not been as quick, and would pay for it with his life. Even if the mech survived long enough to reach the medics, it was unlikely the repair fees would actually be fronted. A low-tier fighter—and one bearing the weight of a penal fine no less—would hardly be worth the expenditure. The pit bosses would more than likely let the mech hasten on to his end, scavenge what they could from the frame, and use the saved credits to purchase a _real_ gladiator.

He, at least, would not fall so easily. He was a sparked Kaonite, through and through. Kaonites either mined or fought, and the weak were either scrapped early on into their existence or fled the city-state. It was the sort of environment that bred survivors, but him? He’d _thrived._ Oh yes, he had his beginnings in the energon mines of Kaon, but he had escaped that drudgery. The pit bosses that ran Kaon always needed a good fighter, and he’d preferred to carve a purpose for himself in violence and spilt energon rather than spend the rest of his function deep in the mines or factories blasting away at unprocessed energon crystals to sustain some arbitrary bot declared to be his better. They’d readily contracted him, and he had outperformed all expectations. He was undefeated, legendary within the pits and rapidly gaining a following outside of them. He was the best Kaon had to offer.

After the kind of showing he’d had in this Coliseum, the pit bosses might even funnel the saved credits into his own repairs, protecting their investment in him. _He_ was a true warrior, more at home in these arenas than anywhere else on Cybertron. He was the strongest, the most ruthless, and the most _dangerous._ They could send Leapers, Cloakers, old-fashioned Titans, it didn’t matter! Everything was fodder!

Buoyed by the self-affirmation, D-16 flourished his energy flail and began to circle the Leaper on the floor of the pit while still keeping a wary optic on the one lurking at the far edges. It began to move in closer, but a powered blast from his fusion cannon kept the drone at bay. One would be easily handled, but even _he_ knew that two at once would be inviting more trouble than it was worth.

There was one other, half-crunched into the Coliseum floor a short distance away. Soundwave had been all but disemboweled by the blasted thing, but he’d stayed standing long enough to shut down its engine. Mostly intact, that particular Leaper had powered down with a droning whine, and even though it seemed to be offline, he wasn’t going to take any chances.

Leapers deserved that extra bit of caution. 

He’d first heard about them before from other pit fighters. They’d been favored war-drones of the old Prime’s army, little more than heavily armored death-dealers that usually leapt onto the ground near an opponent generating an incapacitating shockwave. Once caught in that trap, a mech was left vulnerable to the Leaper’s horrifying charge attack, powered by the massive speed engines strapped to its back. Those attacks were almost always killing blows if they landed, puncturing spark chambers and rending vitals with the vicious claws on their hands. It was considered suicide to face them head on—more cautious fighters preferred to attack from behind, smashing the exposed engines and sparking off a fatal chain-reaction within its internals.

Soundwave had attempted as much, but failed.

There was a time for caution, yes, but there was also a time for decisive action and a glorious takedown. The mob around him wanted spilled energon and carnage; he would give it to them.

He waited for the tell-tale whine of powering engines, and where another mech would have dodged he instead refused to move from the out of the way of the sudden charge. The forward momentum of the massive war drone was met and returned by a heavy foot smashing into the front of its chassis, and D-16 smashed his flail into the deep purple plating. The metal sizzled and warped around the weapon, exposing precious wiring and gears.

The drone raised an arm as if to beat him away, and D-16 struck, plunging his hand deep inside the complex systems and yanking loose wires and connectors. His hand was smeared with grease and oil when he pulled it back out, and he shook some of the excess fluid loose before smashing his fist into the drone’s faceplates with an echoing crunch. The war drone sparked and jerked erratically, but stayed on its feet, swinging at him wildly.

He lunged to the side, gray armor shining orange from the reflected light of the Leaper's power core as he rolled behind it, firing another blast into the exposed weak-point. It seized up, arcs of blue electricity and white-hot plasma sparking from its internals before it blew apart in the chain reaction.

D-16 let out a triumphant roar as he caught the severed head in his massive grip, crushing it between his fingers before he threw it into the face plates of the other Leaper as it charged forward, causing the war drone to stumble backwards before it recovered its footing.

Even here, these soft Iaconians and their weak Prime cheered him on, appalled at the carnage he had wrought in their Coliseum, but in awe of the same. He could hear some of the clearer accolades above the noisy din.

Relentless, they called him.

The Slag-maker.

He slammed his energy flail back into the torso plating of the Leaper, knocking it over. The whine of stressed gears and servos rose above the din as he planted his foot deeper into the dent left behind and began to doggedly wrench one of the powerful legs out of socket.

These were mere _toys,_ no match for his prowess! D-16 succeeded in his dismemberment of the drone, holding it high above his head in triumph as crude energon and hydraulic fluid splattered over his legs and the arena floor.

Caught up in his deliberate pandering, the crowd all but clamored out of their seats and over the sides of the arena, wishing to be closer to the action. Fine, then. Let them have it! D-16 flung the severed leg deep into the crowds, the wave of spectators surging back and away from the projectile with startled outcries.

Hah! D-16 wrenched the other leg loose, flinging that one into the crowd as well.

He was no _tame_ mechanism, no pet fighter to trot out for others enjoyment. He was unfettered, something to be feared by even those merely watching him. No one, _nothing_ was safe from his reach, and that thrill of narrow danger made the crowds love him, made them remember him!

Already a few of the steadier mechs and femmes in the crowd had recovered from the panic and were now pushing and shoving at each other to get at the legs he'd thrown into their midst. One of them was recovered by a rather feral looking Praxian, the black and silver mech—an Enforcer—easily swooping up the severed leg for himself. A slight scuffle had broken up closer to the arena walls, and a dark purple, black and yellow mech darted away with the second leg, his red visor gleaming in triumph like a turborat with a new prize for its hoard.

Look at them! They were no better than he—worse even! —these higher ranked bots scavenging bits and pieces of a drone for souvenirs! And they claimed to be so far removed from the common mechs and femmes they sneered at every cycle.

Beneath his foot, the mutilated Leaper twitched as it spurted out vital fluids over the arena floor and D-16 ground his massive weight further into the buckled plating. “Who defeats me?! _Who defeats me!?”_

The unruly crowd continued to shout and cheer, whipped into a greater frenzy by his bravado.

“ _No one_ defeats me!” D-16 smashed his energy flail into the writhing Leaper. “I defy all odds!” *smash* “I defy all mechanisms!” *smash* “I defy _fate itself!” *smash*_ The punctuated assault had reduced the once formidable war drone into little more than a mass of broken gears and crushed metal, but still it clung to its function, attempting to strike at the looming gladiator with its mangled limbs. Even against the inevitable it struggled; D-16 felt an odd sort of kinship with the drone in that moment. He struck at it again, erasing the weaker emotion that threatened to rise up in him.

Within the stands, a minor noble glanced over at his companion. “This one fancies himself mightier than the Primes themselves!”

“He fights well enough that he might well _be._ It’s like Megatronus returned. _”_

As these things are wont to occur, another bot overheard the conversation and turned to spread the comment to the next mech, and so forth. Comparisons to the infamous Prime spread throughout the crowd and evolved. No one would ever know who first began the cheer, but it originated there in Iacon, within the walls of the ancient Coliseum. One voice, then another, and another, until the formless roar morphed into a chant as a menacing war drone skittered out of the arena gates and the mech called D-16 hefted his fusion cannon with a sneer.

“MEGATRONUS!”

“MEGATRONUS!”

“MEGATRONUS!”

 

* * *

 

"Tracks, where!?"

"Just ahead. They'll be taking him into the lower pits."

Jazz pushed his way through the crowd, uncaring of who or what got in his way. They parted easily for him—almost all of the bots on this level of the building were hardly ranked enough to challenge him in the first place, and even the scant few that were didn’t bother, quickly backing down once they realized just _who_ the mech was.

A few curious looks were shared at the odd scenario—what would Protihex's Alpha Maestro be doing down here? —and a few of the more enterprising mechs and femmes called out for autographs, only to be summarily ignored or pushed back by either Tracks or Blaster.

The bots populating the area thinned out as they continued onward until they reached the lower levels of the Coliseum. These were little more than maintenance tunnels and a few control rooms here or there, empty for the most part except for the scrapped mechs here and there. A few mechs toiled among them—underlings of the pit bosses who owned the contract of those unfortunate gladiators, a medic or two treating those that might still survive to see another fight.

"Mirage? Did he make it this far?"

An empty patch of air next to Jazz that had been radiating more and more distaste the deeper they went rippled briefly as the mech in question flipped through a more advanced range of sensors to no avail. "Not that I can tell."

"Slaggit." Jazz grabbed at one of the medics that passed nearby, desperate for answers. "You! Have you seen a blue and white Protihexan down here? He's a communication Host named Soundwave?"

"Uhhh...I...."  
  
"Well, mech!?"

The medic—obviously one that was fresh out of training (if he'd even had any formal schooling) stalled glancing nervously this way and that. "The bosses don't like anyone trifling with their mechs. I'm not even sure you're supposed to be _down here._ "

Tracks scoffed as he gently removed the medic from Jazz’s grip. "Does it look like we care!? Look mech, this is yours." Tracks pulled out one of his spare credit chips. "200 credits. All you need to do is tell us where a mech named Soundwave is down here. He was just dragged out of the Arena about thirty or forty breems ago, was scrapped up pretty bad?"

The medic seemed to ponder the offer for a moment, then quickly snatched the chip. The amount was more than he’d see in a stellar cycle, especially given the exorbitant percentages the pit-bosses liked to claim out of their service fees. "He's down by the smelting pile. Just follow the energon spillage." The medic turned to go, only to be seized by Jazz once more. "You're coming with us, mech. We might need you."

The younger medic squawked in surprise as he was dragged back down the hall. "I really—I really shouldn't! My boss—"

Jazz hissed in frustration. "A thousand credits to mute it and do what we need you to!"

The medic fell silent almost immediately. Money talked, after all, and this was definitely the sweetest tune he’d ever heard.

They continued on, the young medic leading them deeper into the service tunnels of the Coliseum. The roar of the crowds above was load enough to penetrate the walls and ceiling as a dull sort of white noise, and Jazz fumed inwardly at the utter callousness that had led to this sorry situation.

Not one particularly fond of silence, Blaster glanced over at the medic. Definitely young—younger than him, for sure—and about the right age to start service as an intern. Why the mech was _here_ instead of mentoring in a medical facility, though? Blaster’s look turned appraising. “Soooo….”

The red mech, who had been shooting surreptitious glances at Track’s flip-out wings, turned towards him, and Blaster felt the urge to twitch under that curious gaze. “Knock Out.”

“Ah. Right. Knock Out.” Blaster subtlety moved closer to Tracks. Seriously…this mech was _way too interested in his chassis_ and he was getting strong a strong creeper vibe off of the medic. _This is a mech_ , Blaster thought to himself, _who would be far too happy pulling apart a mech’s internals just to see how they worked._

“Were you contracted out to assist with the Games?”

Knock Out frowned. “Contract? Nah. That’s for those fancy high-born medics. I was actually sparked into an administrative caste, but what’s an administrator going to do in Kaon?”

“…handle the city’s administrative work?” Tracks said slowly, as if speaking to a youngling.

Knock out laughed bitterly. “You’ve _never_ been to Kaon, have you? Kaon belongs to the pit bosses, and the bureaucrats there are puppets. You only need a few puppets; keeps things efficient. Now medics? Always going to need plenty of those, and us administrative types have got the processing power, if not the actual training. But education chips are easy to come by when you know the right bots, and a few orns practical experience will definitely get you up to scruff.”

Blaster and Tracks exchanged horrified glances. “Mech, that’s _illegal._ ” Seriously illegal, in fact. Tracks, thanks to his control over his guild’s gossip network—and therefore Protihex’s gossip network—had feelers all over Cybertron, and had long grown accustomed to hearing that some bot or another had been disciplined for unsanctioned operations. The Powers-That-Be did not like it when a bot stepped that far out of line. It threatened Cybertron’s stability if left unchecked.

Knock Out shrugged. “What are they going to do? Arrest me and send me to the Pits? They can’t delete the training now that I’ve assimilated it all. My Boss will just knock me about a bit for the inconvenience and put me back on medic duty.”

“Surely _someone_ would know what’s going on…” Tracks murmured, completely scandalized. How was it possible that a state would allow such corruption? And not even try to disguise it? He’d heard rumors that it was a widely unregulated and a bastion of criminal activity, but he had dismissed them for the most part. What city-state would allow itself to function in such a fashion—and furthermore—how could _any_ kind of city-state operate in defiance of Sentinel Prime’s social model?”

“Well, yeah, everyone _knows_ what Kaon’s like, but there’s not much you can do to bots that are already at rock-bottom. ‘s long as they don’t get _too_ far out of line and they keep the energon deadlines? Well, the Council lets the Bosses do what they want.

“So why not use Soundwave for a medic? Surely your Boss must have known he couldn’t fight.” Jazz clamped down on his rising irritation; what was done was done, and there was no use getting angry with those who had nothing to do with Soundwave’s incarceration. He just needed to get some sort of assistance to Soundwave before the mech up and died on them. 

Knock Out pointed them to the right, and they went deeper into the tunnels. “The thought crossed his mind, but your mech had a sentencing tag installed on him. Can’t do a thing while that tag’s active—it’ll report directly back to the Enforcers, and _they_ aren’t as understanding as the Council. We’d all be tagged up and put in the ring.”

“And you don’t think openly discussing illegal behavior is dangerous?”

Knock Out grinned. “They’d have to prove it first.” Knock Out didn’t notice—or more likely didn’t care—about the outraged looks that statement garnered.

<Jazz? You want to let this piece of trash work on Soundwave?> Mirage opened up a private line between them, still invisible to all but the most advanced sensors; much as he was concerned for Soundwave, he could not risk being spotted down in the lower levels. Unlike Jazz, who was afforded an extra degree of…eccentricity, he was held to a stricter code of conduct, and this would most certainly draw all sorts of attention he _didn’t need._

A grim expression overtook Jazz’s face before he settled back into careful neutrality. 

<Do you see a better choice, Mirage? _I_ certainly didn’t notice any professional medical interns down here, and I doubt Soundwave has time for us to find one. For Pit’s sake, I’ll be glad if we can just keep the mech functional right now, real medic or not. >

Knock Out, meanwhile, continued to talk. Talking was good; better than that awkward silence at least. And it wasn’t too much trouble; they could be shocked all they wanted as long as he got those credits. “Anyway, The Boss had just gotten around to getting that thing shut off when the Prime decides to open the Coliseum back up for this celebration thing, and we needed another fighter to make quota. Your mech Soundboard...”

“Soundwave”

“Right. Soundwave. Anyway, he was pretty smart and took a deal to get himself hooked up with a combat chip—kept him alive those first few cycles he was there. Well, it also made it real easy to classify him as a fighter. The boss intended to do the coding switch once this was all over with, but your mech went and got himself all fragged up right and proper. Figured he was done for, so we tossed him back here and figured we’d recycle his parts or something.”

A very ugly thread of malice wound its way through Jazz’s spark. “That mech is a valued student of mine and a dear friend. He’s _not_ being recycled.”

“Hey! I intend to do everything I can, but I’m not a _real_ medic, you know? And I’m not a miracle worker. He took a pounding from those Leapers, the way I understand it. I’ll do what I can, but it might already be too late. Anyway, he’s back here.” Knock Out pointed towards a dark area of the sub-level they were on. Even from a distance, Jazz could clearly see a large mound with a few distinct body parts sticking out of it—not all of them attached to a body.

As Jazz neared the mound, he spotted movement here and there, as if something were pulsating underneath the mound, causing the whole thing to move. A deep vibration—something rumbling—and part of the mound fell away, revealing an all too familiar leg. A group of cassetticons seized onto the appendage and dragged at it, slowly tugging free a broken and battered form that Jazz instantly recognized, no matter how damaged it currently was.

“Soundwave… _SOUNDWAVE_!” Jazz all but leapt towards the struggling group of cassetticons, Blaster close on his heels.

Oh Primus, there was so much energon. All over his arms, his legs, leaking out from the seams of his chest plating...

Soundwave’s once pristine blue armor was coated in dull pink energon splatters, blackened lubricant and oils smeared around the edges of an awful gash that went from left shoulder to right hip joint, exposing torn wiring and shredded hydraulics. Deep beneath a cluster of wires, Jazz could make out the exposed edges of silver spark casing, the glowing blue light of Soundwave’s spark too dim by far.

Unsure of where he could actually touch without further aggravating already extensive injuries, Jazz hesitated, then slipped his hands underneath Soundwave’s shoulders to help lift him off of the mound while Blaster had grasped hold of the other leg, enabling the cassetticons to better handle the one they had. None of them could probably inflict more than damage than what had already been done, and they had a medic close at hand.  They placed Soundwave on a relatively clean spot of the floor, Jazz cradling the broken mech’s helm on his lap.

There was damage there too, Jazz noted with a dawning horror, a trail of dried energon running down the back and side of his helm; Soundwave taken a hard blow to his helm, crumpling in an audial senor almost as sensitive as his own, and actually exposing a bit of neural circuitry. Dread settled over his shoulders; it would take an act of Primus to save Soundwave.

Knock Out stepped forward, but was met with sudden resistance by the feline-based cassetticon, who began hissing at him in open warning, while the two flight models swooped about his head driving him away.

“Hey! Cut it out you little pests!” Knock Out tried to beat the cassetticons off, but it was no use. Meanwhile, the red and blue pair of cassetticons whirled on Jazz and Blaster.

“What the frag are you doing!? You ain’t scrappin’ our mech!”

“Yeah! Let the boss go! You ain’t harvesting nothing off him!”

The smallest of them had tucked up under one of Soundwave’s hands, shooting suspicious glares at Jazz.

“Whoa, slow down guys!” Blaster crouched so that he was closer to the defensive cassetticons. “We’re friends of Soundwave, and we brought a medic to help him.”

“Friends?! The Boss ain’t got no friends down here!” The blue one retracted his hands to reveal a set of drills. "I’m gonna scrap all you lying slaggers!”

Knock Out succeeded in knocking away one of the fliers, and growled in frustration at the casseticon. “ _Look_ _stupid,_ that there’s a set of upper caste mechs! Do you honestly think they’d need to scrounge around down _here_ for spare parts?! They’re paying good credits to fix your bot, Primus knows why, so move out the way!”

There was an obvious flurry of communication between the cassetticons before the blue one waved his drill menacingly. “Fine, but the first time you do something suspicious, me and Rumble are gonna be on you like rust on an energon tanker!” The blue one snapped back, but all of them ceased their attacks, instead warily watching Knock Out as the mech knelt next to the downed musician.

“Primus, what a mess…” Barely even sure where to begin, Knock Out settled for making sure he could actually _see_ the damage that needed repairing, and that meant getting Soundwave something resembling clean. Or at least not leaking out of every orifice, what with clean being pretty much a pipe dream. Three sponges and a bottle of spray solvent were pulled out of his subspace; one of the sponges was passed to Jazz, the cleanser and remaining sponges were thrown at the more vocal of the cassetticons. “Get scrubbing you two. You want your meal ticket around? I’m not going to do all the work myself while you evil little fraggers just stare me down.”

“The Boss ain’t a meal ticket!”

“Right, and I graduated top of the class from Iacon General.” Knock Out snarked, hardly attempting to hide his voice.

The two bipedal cassetticons bristled, but set to work.

“This will do a quicker job.”

Blaster startled as Tracks approached, producing a can of Incandesca’s top-grade solvent that was gently pressed into his hand before the mech retreated back towards the front of the small chamber.

To be perfectly honest, he had expected both Mirage and Tracks to return topside to the Coliseum, but they had both followed he and Jazz down to the sub-levels of the Coliseum. Tracks he could somewhat understand following them; guild Incandesca was notorious for their intricate planet-spanning information network, so it made a twisted sort of sense for their guild-master’s heir-apparent to flout propriety in pursuit of what could be incredibly interesting gossip—there were numerous mechs and femmes who would pay dearly for any potential bargaining chip over a guild master—especially one of the more powerful ones like Jazz, who didn’t seem to have any sort of vulnerability when it came to social maneuvering.

He, Tracks and Mirage had long known that the quickest way to get to Jazz was to attack those he cared about, and had took pains to insure that they always avoid getting into any sort of entanglement that could somehow be used against Jazz. Soundwave was also one of those special few but the mech never had been able to avoid getting into trouble between one thing and another, regardless of how it might affect Jazz, and again and again Jazz would stick his neck out for Soundwave. Like now, and the mech was definitely flirting with crossing legal lines on his own, what with hiring a mech in an unregistered position and arranging services for a sentenced bot outside of sanctioned government facilities.

This was definitely something that could be used against Jazz, so of course Tracks was going to make sure to be the first to know about it so he could cover it up before it spread to the wrong individuals. It went without saying that Jazz would owe him a strong favor down the line, but that was just how Protihexans worked, trading in favors and nebulous IOUs. Tracks would be protected as he could easily claim to be working the gossip networks, so the mech was free to do as he willed.

Mirage was the true shocker. Unlike Tracks, Mirage didn’t need to track down every piece of gossip on Cybertron, and where Protihex and even Iacon might forgive a few eccentricities, the Towers most certainly did not. Bots, regardless of their rank, were expected to adhere to one of the most intricate and unforgiving strictures of social protocol. Everyone, from the lowliest servant to the loftiest noble, _everyone_ had their own laws of etiquette, and stepping out of line for any reason could destroy a bot’s standing. If the damage was severe enough to the reputation, a bot could be entirely cast out of the Towers to fend for themselves.

Mirage was already being closely watched by his peers, and the only leeway in protocol Mirage had was when he was in Protihex; a state event in Iacon would elicit even more formalized behavior. Mirage was already skirting the line by associating openly with him and Tracks, who were just below the appropriate rank for casual interaction. Jazz’s presence and their association with him were enough to offset most of the stigma, however. To the average brand of Towers denizen, Mirage was a bit odd—no doubt because of his origins in Crystal City—but still kept well enough in line with their standards to be accepted.

Every one of those status-obsessed glitches would have blown a fuse if they’d known Mirage was down here. Blaster supposed that explained why the noblemech had steadfastly remained cloaked since they’d left Jazz’s office. But why follow them down here? Mirage had never been particularly fond of Soundwave, only aware of the mech because of the ties to him and Jazz; Soundwave certainly wasn’t worth Mirage taking a blow to his reputation.

Jazz.

It had to be Jazz.

Mirage was a known friend of Jazz, and if what was going on down here was enough to actually put a stain on Jazz’s formidable reputation, the gossips would tear Mirage apart. Being down here meant Mirage could keep an optic on Jazz and ensure that the mech didn’t do anything too damaging to either of their reputations. Blaster couldn’t help but be a little relieved about that; Jazz was a stubborn mech, and neither he nor Tracks had ever been able to sway him from a course of action once his mind was set. Prowl was one of two who could, but Prowl was no doubt where he was supposed to be instead of running all over the Coliseum. Mirage was the other. Blaster took comfort in the fact that at least someone with some fragging sense was present. Mirage wouldn’t lift a hand to assist—even if he were visible—but his mere presence would be enough to hold Jazz back from doing something completely stupid.

Blaster finished wiping away the last bit of his section, assisted by a liberal application of Tracks’ solvent, and glanced around. Jazz was gently daubing away the energon from a gash alongside Soundwave’s helm, a grim expression on his features. The bipedal set of cassetticons were busy manipulating the bottle of solvent between the two of them while the feline model leaned balanced on its hind legs and wiped at the energon stains. Blaster moved as if to help, but shrank back as one of the flight models snapped viciously at him.

So much for that approach.

Blaster gave them a moment to settle down, and then decided to ask a question no doubt weighing on both he and Jazz’s minds. **“** If he isn’t a meal ticket, and he isn’t your Host, what is he?”

“Who says he ain’t our Host?!”

Blaster was hardly impressed by the sudden bluster. “If he was your Host, you’d be broadcasting his ID tags, for one.” _Two,_ Blaster mused to himself, _you’d be just as bad off as Soundwave right now._ Links between Host and Symbiote could be deadly when there was enough damage feedback.

“That’s just a formality!” The blue casseticon snapped.

“Cut the slag, Frenzy.” Knock Out, finally able to see enough of the actual damage, didn’t bother to look up from his cauterizing work. “Soundwave’s a convict. He isn’t _allowed_ to take on symbionts until the terms of his sentence are met. If even then.”

An uneasy silence fell over the group of cassetticons, permeating the atmosphere with extra tension they all could honestly have done without. It was finally broken by Rumble.

“He watches out for us, even when he don’t have to. Nobody else gives a frag about us, and most of the pit bosses have just been waiting for Sounders to kick it so they can scavenge his parts for more profitable mechs. They ain’t exactly got his best interest in mind, either. So we stick together, watch each other’s back. He’s our bro.”

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For looking out for Soundwave.” Jazz clarified. “I’m glad someone was.”

“Yeah, well it should have been you. Great work dropping the ball on that one. So what is this anyway? Trying to work off some guilt?”

A horrified silence settled over the room at the impudent comment, and Blaster didn’t doubt for an instant that Mirage was close to fritzing over the disrespect.

These cassetticons were either completely lacking in common sense, or just flat didn't care about social convention because they were so deep into rock bottom a reprisal wouldn't affect them much anyway.

Blaster would put the entirety of his accumulated marque price on that second one.

Jazz’s gaze turned icy. “More like doing what I can to help someone that never stopped being important to me. _Not_ that my reasons are any of your business.”

“If he was so important to ya, why’d you let the Enforcers nab him, then?”

“I hardly ­­ _let­_  them do anything. I’d already set up provisions to have Soundwave reinstated, but the Enforcers got to him first—even if he’d still been in the guild, they would’ve had authority to take him. All I could do is plea on his behalf to the Council—and I did—at great length—for all the good that did.”

Jazz looked resigned. “I could have only softened the fall—Soundwave ultimately put himself in this position. I can’t make his choices for him.”

Rumble and Frenzy shared an unhappy look, and though it was clear they wanted to say more, the snap-hiss of a welder powering down focused their attention back on Knock Out.

“How’s the boss?” Frenzy demanded, climbing up to Soundwave’s still form to monitor the medic’s progress.

“Not in danger of immediately de-activating. It’s going to take more tools and time than we have now to get him back up to something resembling functioning, but Soundwave will live to see another orn.”

Jazz’s engine rumbled softly in relief. “Thank Solus.”

Blaster glanced towards the far end of the room, where Tracks (and a still cloaked Mirage) were idling. He didn’t doubt that the two were more than aware of the goings on away from them, but for formality’s sake he opened up a private comm line between the three of them.

<Soundwave should pull through. Knock Out intends to complete the rest of the repairs once they’re back in Kaon.>

<I imagine the little free-loaders will be pleased.> Mirage’s tone was ripe with disdain.

Fair enough, but…<I don’t think they’re really free-loaders. Not so much.>

Disbelief flooded the comm line, buoying along Tracks’ incredulous scoff.

<I’m serious! You can’t look at them and not see how similar it is to Jazz and Soundwave. Jazz picked Soundwave up off the streets when they were younglings, Soundwave starts looking out for a group of younglings off the street?>

<Jazz was in a considerably better state than Soundwave, but let the mech trade on his capabilities in order to better himself. Soundwave was a free-loader himself, Blaster. No matter how you try to clean it up, the mech brought nothing to the table when Jazz found him. Nothing but problems. In a few vorns time, Jazz will be relieved to have done with him.> 

Blaster would have said more, but was stopped by Tracks excusing himself from the conversation due to being contacted by one of his guild members. Blaster glanced back over at Jazz, who carefully wiped a smudge of oil from Soundwave’s visor while the cassetticons…were siphoning energon from the deactivated bodies around them into a storage cube.

Sweet. Primus.

He turned away, focusing back on Jazz, who was attempting to clean some of the energon off of his person to little avail. “Can’t you at least get that chip deactivated now? While he’s out?”

“Because _that’s_ easy.” Knock Out grumbled quietly.

“You were planning to do it anyway. Just…do what you can for him. Everything you can.”

Tracks voice cut across the room then, halting conversation. Orders, really. “We need to go. We are becoming missed, mechs, and we’ve all appearances to keep. You can’t afford to be here any longer _Alpha Maestro._ ”

Jazz frowned. “But Soundwave-“

“Will have to fend for himself now. You’ve done enough. _More_ than enough.”

Jazz got a stubborn look on his face, but was cut short by private comm from Mirage.

<You’ve carried Soundwave on your back since we were all younglings. You should have left him on his own long before now. This is out of your hands now! Don’t let him drag you down with him, Jazz! You have your own duties to see to beyond this.>

Jazz was silent a long moment, then stood to rise, deftly slipping a small data chip into a crevice behind Soundwave’s visor. It would not be the first time he’d done such a thing; it was, however, likely the last. Jazz pinned Knock Out with a solemn look. “I want your best.” Jazz didn’t wait for a reply; just took one last lingering look at the mech who’d been the closest thing he’d had to a brother, and walked off.

Blaster paused long enough to toss a credit chip to the feline casseticon. It was nowhere near as large as Jazz’s, but still valuable in its own right. “Take care of him. Yourselves too.”

“They will.” Knock Out murmured darkly, trading glares with the aerial models.

 

* * *

 

Mirage dropped cloak once they were closer to the public areas of the Coliseum, and recoiled as he got a good look at Jazz and Blaster in decent lighting. “Primus, you two are a mess!”

Tracks grimaced as in distaste as he took in the streaks of dried energon and crude oil over the two musicians’ frames. It might have been forgivable on anyone else, but not for bots of their station. Such an obvious state of disarray would spark questions and rumors none of them needed at the moment. Track’s cast about for a second before spotting one of his guild members carrying a tray laden with an assortment of drinks and confections, no doubt refreshments for the bots he had stationed in Incandesca’s parlor that were unable to leave their work areas.

The young femme hurried over after catching his glance and Tracks subtly motioned to Jazz and Blaster. <Dear spark, I need you to take a fall.>

Orders received, she adjusted her graceful gait to one more clumsy, taking on the struggling movement of a bot faltering under too large of a weight. A sway this way then that, and she stumbled forward, launching the contents of her tray all over Jazz and Blaster.

Mirage, quite familiar with the trick, was quick to cause a scene, squawking in horror. “Look what you’ve done! And all over the Alpha Maestro!” The femme began to stammer apologies, obviously panicking.

“Now, now…I’m sure it was just an accident. Come, Alpha Maestro; we’ll have my personal entourage get you and yours all cleaned up.” He spared quelling look at the femme before him. “With us, if you please. I’m *sure* your superiors will want to know about this!” The show now over with relatively no fuss, the bots watching began to dissipate, going back to their own diversions.

“Well played, sweetspark!” Tracks fished out a credit chip and passed it to her once the crowd was sufficiently thinned out. “Grab another tray and meet us back at the parlor; work on pooling all the information from the last, oh, two joors or so and bring me up to speed when you arrive.”

“Of course, Savant Tracks!” The young femme dipped a graceful courtesy and swiftly dipped back into the crowd, weaving through them all with careless ease.

Jazz and Blaster, meanwhile, traded long-suffering looks with each other as Mirage ushered them off.

“Tracks, what the frag!?”

Tracks waved off Blaster’s exclamation. “Oh _please._ You both are filthy and reek of the lower levels. This gives us time and cause to get you straightened up without undue attention. Ah, here we are!” Tracks strode into the parlor space accorded to his guild as if he owned it—and perhaps he did, technically speaking. “Firestar! Firestar! Priority one!”

An immaculately groomed femme painted in a daring blend of red and burnt orange looked up from the color chart she was organizing. “What in Solus’ name are you—” She stopped short, taking in the appearance of the two mechs between Tracks and Mirage. “ _What did you do to my work!?”_

* * *

Startled, D-16 took in the crowds around him as he finished off his latest—his last—opponent. The war drone now so many scattered pieces across the arena, he allowed himself to pay attention to the roaring chant of the crowd.

 _Megatronus?_ Everyone knew of the Dark Prime, of the Fallen. Megatronus was the looming specter of a thousand horror stories, the cautionary tale told to wayward sparklings to keep them in line. But there were other stories. Stories of unyielding strength. Of stubborn refusal to bow to another’s whims. Megatronus had been many things, but ultimately all agreed upon one thing: of all the Thirteen, of all Cybertronians, Megatronus had been the one to carve his own destiny.

D-16 had to consider the point: he had done no less. Had he not defied his own fate, decreed from the moment he emerged from the Well and transformed into an excavation tank? They had told him to mine, and he refused. Here he was, one of Cybertron’s strongest warriors, risen up from the lowest of castes to stand in Iacon’s oldest and grandest landmark with the adoration of the crowd behind him? Oh, he was no Prime, but in this moment he didn’t doubt the crowds held him in equal favor.

And why _shouldn’t_ he be Prime? This Prime was ancient and remote, uncaring of anything except his precious order and his own power. _He_ could lead the way—he had risen up, surely he could guide others along the same path. Cybertron deserved change, needed it, and much the same way he had defied his own personal fate he could turn Cybertron away from the grim destiny it faced along Sentinel Prime’s decreed path.

 _Megatronus._ He was strong enough to walk this path, to be the agent of change. He was more than strong enough, but he would not do it with a dead mech’s name, or the failed legacy attached to it. Megatronus had defied fate, had refused to kowtow to his brethren, but he _had_ also turned his back on Cybertron. D-16 felt something begin to solidify within his mind, a path and a goal start to form. A purpose blooming within his spark. No, he would not _be_ Megatronus, but he would be _like_ him. _Better_ than him. He would take time to think, and then he would _lead_ Cybertron to a destiny it deserved; he would make them strong, and _save_ them.

He charged his fusion cannon up once more, the lovingly maintained weapon thrumming with power and glowing orange with deadly energy.

“I! AM! **_MEGATRON_**!”

He fired, gray armor reflecting the vibrant glow from the resulting explosion. The crowd’s roar dimmed, then doubled in intensity as his name— _his name_ —was shouted from even the highest rafters.

“MEGATRON!”

“MEGATRON!”

“MEGATRON!”

D-16—Megatron—raised the arm bearing his fusion cannon high in triumph as the weight of something like destiny settled on his shoulders.

_Yesss._

_All hail Megatron._

 

 


End file.
